Cat-Eye Witness (A Klepto Cat Mystery)

by Fry, Patricia

  “You know, Rags is pretty adaptable. He adjusts easily. So what about the sheriff’s office? They must have a room there. Maybe we could take him over there and see how he does.”

  “Good idea. I like that. Seems like a safer solution.”

  “Okay, I’ll let Craig know. I’ll ask about doing a test run…maybe this evening?”

  ***

  Sledge greeted the couple as they walked into the sheriff’s office. “Hello, uh Savannah, Michael.” He then peered in through the wire door of the carrier. “Hi there, kitty. Rags, right?” He looked up at Savannah for confirmation.

  She nodded.

  Sledge motioned for Michael to bring the carrier into the next room. “As Savannah and I discussed, rather than a formal trial run, we’ll let the cat out in here with us to wander around before we bring the suspects in. I had Deputy Jenson set out some water and a bowl for his favorite food—you brought that, right?”

  “Yes.” Savannah looked around the room. She saw two large tables folded up against one wall and half-dozen folding chairs standing open around the room.

  “I had the tables moved out so we’d have an unobstructed view of him and this also gives him more space to walk around. He won’t feel closed in.”

  “Good idea,” Michael said as he set the carrier on the floor.

  Sledge nodded and sat down in the nearest chair.

  Upon seeing the wire gate open, Rags stepped out of the carrier, placing his front paws on the floor. He looked around and sniffed the air. He glanced over at Savannah, who was now seated nearby and proceeded to walk out into the room. He turned and watched as Michael moved the carrier back into a corner, leaving the wire door open. “In case he needs an escape route,” he explained to Sledge and Savannah.

  Savannah smiled approvingly and went back to watching her cat as he checked out all the unfamiliar sights, scents and sounds. He stopped occasionally to listen to something, to sniff a spot on the floor or to look at a spot on the wall. After he made the rounds in the room, he strolled over to Savannah, put his paws up on the seat of her chair and stretched. She scratched him behind one ear before he jumped down and walked over to rub up against Michael’s legs.

  “He looks pretty relaxed to me,” the detective observed. “Shall we bring in the others?”

  Savannah swallowed hard, looked over at Michael, and nodded.

  Craig Sledge left the room. Soon, the door opened. Savannah was surprised to see Iris enter. She glanced at Savannah before looking away. Behind Iris was her son, Damon, hobbling in on a walking cast, his left arm in a cast and sling. Fred Garfield was the next one to enter, and then Sledge came into the room last. “Please, each of you take a seat anywhere you like,” the detective instructed.

  Iris glanced over at Savannah and Michael, giving them a weak smile. She sat in a chair against the wall to the right, leaving two chairs empty between herself and Savannah.

  “Sit down, Jackson,” Sledge demanded.

  Damon had his eye on the cat. Reluctantly, he hobbled toward a chair across the room from his mother and sat down. He continued to stare daggers at Rags. “I hate damn cats,” he said under his breath.

  Fred Garfield appeared to be completely out of his element. Beads of sweat poured from his forehead. He glanced over at Rags, who was sitting next to Michael watching the parade of people move around the room. Garfield walked the length of the room and sat in the middle of three chairs along the far wall. Sledge grabbed a chair near the door, turned it around and straddled it.

  All eyes were on the cat.

  “Jackson, you go first,” Sledge instructed.

  “What, man?”

  “See if you can get the cat to come over to you.”

  “I told ya. I hate cats. I don’t want that cat near me.”

  “Just do what I tell ya!” He then turned to Savannah and asked, “Did you bring a cat toy?”

  “Oh yes.” She jumped to her feet and swayed just a little. She glanced over at Michael, expecting an intervention. But his eyes were on Rags. Savannah walked over to the carrier, reached in and retrieved a wand with a feather on the end.

  “Give it to Jackson, will ya?”

  She did as the detective asked. Damon took the wand and just sat there looking at it in complete and utter disgust. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he spat.

  “Show him, will you, Ms. Jordan?”

  She took the wand from Damon, placed the feather end on the floor and began moving it around to entice the cat. Rags crouched and looked at it with great interest. She handed it back to Damon.

  “Do what she did,” Sledge ordered.

  Damon gritted his teeth and shook his head, mumbling about the “Damn stupid cat.” He slammed the wand on the floor over and over again.

  Rags, who was still sitting next to Michael, sat straight and began watching the feather, his head bobbing up and down in rhythm with it.

  “Slowly,” Sledge barked.

  “Damn stupid cat,” he said as he began moving the feather around more slowly. Suddenly, Rags sprinted over to the feather, attacking it as if he were in a jungle chasing after a lizard.

  “Whoa,” Damon yelled. “That’s one scary cat!”

  “Put your hand down so he can smell it. Speak to him,” Sledge said.

  Damon cringed. He put his right hand toward the cat and continued to say, “Stupid damn cat.” Rags crouched and stretched toward Damon’s hand and then he recoiled—stepped back, sat down and stared at him.

  “Move toward him, Jackson,” Sledge demanded. “Slowly. Try to make friends.”

  “Shit, man, I don’t want nothin’ to do with this stupid cat.”

  “Just do it!” Sledge hissed.

  Damon set his jaw and shook his head. “I have better things to do than talk to a stupid cat,” he spat.

  “Want to spend the night in a jail cell?” Sledge threatened.

  Daman rolled his eyes. “Awwww man.” Reluctantly, he reached out again with his right hand. The cat stared at him for a few moments. Rags stretched toward Damon sniffing at the cast on his foot.

  “Pet him,” the detective said.

  “Shit,” Damon said under his breath as he clumsily patted the cat’s back.

  Rags turned and sniffed Damon’s hand. He then backed up and sat down in front of him. He spotted the feather wand on the floor and batted at it a few times.

  “Okay, Ms. Clampton. See if you can get the cat to come to you.” Sledge watched as she stood, smoothed her sassy, knee-length skirt, walked across the room and knelt down to retrieve the feather wand. She bent over a little and drug it along the floor as she returned to her seat. Rags chased after the feather.

  Iris moved the feather around toward Rags after she was seated and he continued to attack it. Iris raised the feather and Rags sat up and pawed at it. She raised it higher and he stood on his back paws reaching for it. This triggered chuckles among at least a few of the spectators.

  “Put your hand down and see if you can pet him,” Sledge suggested.

  Iris reached out toward Rags and he walked up and rubbed against her hand.

  Savannah was sure she saw Craig Sledge smile a little when he observed this.

  “Now, Ms. Clampton, I want you to take the feather and walk it over to Mr. Garfield. Walk with it on the floor so the cat will follow it. When the cat is close to where Mr. Garfield is sitting, hand him the toy.”

  “Oh this is a bunch of crap,” Garfield said. “I’m not doing this nonsense.” He stood up.

  “Sit down, Garfield,” Sledge said sternly. “Now, Ms. Clampton, do as I said.”

  Iris got Rags’s attention with the toy and led him across the room to Fred Garfield as instructed. Rags bounded along behind her chasing the feather. She handed the wand to Garfield, and turned and walked away. Rags sat down. He followed her with his eyes before returning his attention to the feather.

  Sledge also watched as she moved toward her chair. The woman has a remarkable figure for her age and
a regal way of carrying herself. Maybe that’s what makes her so eye-catching. He smiled to himself. Eye-catching—yup that’s what she is, especially in those sexy things she wears and those bright colors. Striking!

  Iris sat down and Sledge noticed that everyone was staring in his direction—waiting for his instructions. He looked over at Fred Garfield and cleared his throat. “Okay, move it, wiggle it,” he said.

  Garfield wiped perspiration from his head with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket and began flicking the feather around in front of him.

  “Not so fast—slow it down,” Sledge said.

  Looking thoroughly deflated and humiliated, Garfield complied. Rags walked a little closer to the feather and stopped. He looked up at Garfield.

  “Speak to him. Show him your hand,” Sledge said.

  “Talk to a cat?” Fred Garfield said with hate in his voice. “Ugly cat,” he said as he held his hand down toward the floor.

  Rags shifted from a sitting position to a crouch, his head low, his tail resting a few inches above the floor. He took a few steps back. He sniffed in the direction of Garfield. His pupils grew larger.

  “Pet him, Garfield. Pet him,” Sledge insisted.

  Fred Garfield reached out in an attempt to pet Rags and the cat let out a low growl. Garfield pulled his hand back. “That cat’s rabid!”

  “Put your hand out there again.”

  Garfield hesitated.

  “Do it!” Sledge demanded.

  Rags’s growl became shrill and intense. He spat at Garfield’s hand and began retreating—stepping back a few steps before turning and running in a crouch over to Michael. He ran under Michael’s chair, stopped and looked back at Garfield, his pupils dilated. He then looked around as if considering his options and darted into the carrier, slinking to the back of it and lying down. Savannah rose and quickly closed the wire door. She looked over at Sledge. “May we leave now? I think Rags has had enough.”

  “Yes,” the detective said with a look of satisfaction on his face. “I think we’re done here. Thank you very much Ms. Jordan, Dr. Ivey.” He peered into the carrier and added, “…and Rags.”

  Fred Garfield stood, preparing to leave when Sledge looked over at him, a sneer on his face. “Oh no, you aren’t going anywhere. I want to talk to you, Garfield.” He glanced over at Damon. “You, too, Jackson.”

  “Why me?” Damon whined. “It’s him the cat fingered.”

  “You shut your mouth, punk,” Garfield spat. “I should have killed you, you little snitch.”

  Damon jumped to his feet and headed for Garfield. “I haven’t snitched yet, but I’m about to, you creep.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sledge stood and pressed a button on an intercom next to the door. “Need backup.” Immediately, two sheriff’s deputies stepped in, each grabbing one of the scrapping men.

  “Take Garfield to a holding cell, will ya? I want to have a little chat with Jackson,” he said to the deputies. “Ms. Clampton, you’re free to go.”

  She looked over at Damon.

  “We’ve got it under control, Ms. Clampton. Let it go,” he said as he ushered her out to the main office. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you for your cooperation.” He watched Iris leave and then said to the deputy at the desk, “Would you have someone set up a table for us in the interrogation room? Thanks.”

  Once the room was prepared, Sledge and Gonzales walked in to find Damon Jackson seated at the table, a uniformed officer standing to his left. The investigators sat down across from the suspect. Sledge started the dialog: “Would you like a glass of water, soda—need to pee? This could take hours, or it could be quick and easy. It’s up to you,” he said staring intently at Damon.

  “Uh, a soda.”

  The detective motioned for the officer to get the beverage. He then faced Damon with a grin that could only be described as cocky. “Okay, Jackson, this is what we know. You have been meeting with Garfield to exchange what—information, drugs, money? Is he blackmailing you? We also suspect that he’s the one who hit you and put you in the hospital—obviously in an attempt to kill you. You got off easy with a few broken bones.” He moved forward, leaned his elbows on the table, looked into Damon’s eyes and said, “Next time you die. Do you get that? He killed once at the Forster house, didn’t he? If he thinks you’re in his way, he’ll kill you, too.”

  Sledge realized he was going out on a limb with his line of questioning. He hoped he was close enough to the truth that Damon would feel threatened and start talking—verifying what Sledge thought he already knew.

  Damon sat quietly, his right hand on the cold soda can. He watched his thumb as he rubbed it along the wet can. He let out a breath with a huff, looked over at Sledge and said, “Can I get outta here if I tell ya what I know?”

  “I promise we’ll go easy on you if we get the right information from you.”

  Damon cleared his throat and looked down at the can. “Yeah, he killed that guy.”

  “To be clear, do you mean that Fred Garfield killed Marvin Byrd?”

  “Yeah, I guess that was his name.”

  “Did you see him do it?”

  Without looking up, Damon shook his head slowly, his tangled red mop of hair staying in place. “I was in the other room and heard something.”

  “Now wait,” Sledge said. “Which room? What were you doing in there?”

  “Across the hall. I…” He closed his eyes. “You know—getting that money,” he said quietly.

  Sledge let out a sigh that felt somewhat like relief. He decided to play dumb—baiting Damon to give him the facts. “What money?”

  “The money in the box.”

  “From the fundraiser?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Damon, how did you know the money was in there?”

  He looked up somewhat surprised to hear the detective use his first name. “I told ya before, I climbed up the ladder to get a balloon for a kid. Well, that’s when I see my mom put the box in there. I go up later when no one’s looking to see how much money was in there. It was just too tempting.” He squirmed sideways in his chair, looked down. “I had people I owed money to, ya know?”

  “Ahhhh. Gotcha,” Sledge said. And then he prompted: “So you climbed up the ladder a second time to get the money—you didn’t use the stairs, right?”

  Damon nodded.

  “And you heard something?”

  “Yeah. I open the door to look out. The noise is coming from that room across the hall.”

  “What sort of noise? What did you hear?”

  “Some guys arguing and then a thump. I stand there listening and then the door opens. Garfield sees me and he grabs me…pulls me into the room.”

  “So you knew Mr. Garfield?” Gonzales asked.

  “Yeah, he was…you know…messing with my mom. She didn’t know I knew.” He lifted his chin and looked over at the investigators through eye slits. “Maybe she can hide that kinda thing from those other kids, but I knew what was goin’ on.”

  Sledge smirked. “Yeah, I’m sure nothin’ gets past you. Okay, go on.”

  Damon took a breath. “Well, he sees me and pushes me into the room and closes the door. He starts telling me he needs help and he’ll pay me if I help him.”

  “What did he need help with? Did you know he had killed someone?”

  “Hell no. Alls I knew was there’s some guy laid out on the bed. I thought he was just knocked out or somethin’. Garfield had this…thing in his hands and he wanted me to get rid of it for him. He said he would pay me a grand.” He shifted in his seat and shot a quick glance at Sledge. “Well, I’m not gonna turn down no thousand bucks. Would you?”

  Sledge ignored the question. “So what did you do?”

  “I took the money. And I took the thing…”

  “What was this…thing?” Gonzales asked.

  “Gawd, I don’t know—like a decoration you would set on a shelf, I guess.” He became animated, contorting his face. “I didn’t want to l
ook at it ’cause it had blood and who knows what else on it.”

  “So what did you do then?” Sledge asked.

  Damon looked at his soda can. “I took it down the ladder. I didn’t know what I was gonna do with it.” He glanced up at Sledge. “I mean there was people everywhere, right? I saw a shovel…and buried it under a bush—figured I’d come back later and hide it in a better place.” He shook his curly head and, without expression, said, “That didn’t work out.”

  “Did you get blood on you?” Sledge asked.

  Damon grimaced. “Yes. I tried not to, but when he handed that…thing to me, some got on my hand.”

  “What did you do about that?”

  Damon looked hard at the detective. “I wiped it off, what do ya think? It about made me puke.”

  “With what?”

  “What do ya mean, with what?” the kid asked.

  Sledge shot Gonzales a sideways grin; shook his head.

  Gonzales sensed that his partner needed a break. He looked over at Damon. “What did you wipe the blood off with?”

  “My rag.”

  “Your what?”

  “Rag…you know.”

  “Oh, your bandana?”

  “Yeah, that’s it, man.”

  Sledge asked, “What color was your…rag, Jackson?”

  “Black. Well, black and sorta white or maybe grey. Mostly black.”

  “Where is it now?” the detective asked.

  “I don’t know, man. I lost it.”

  The detective leaned forward and looked into Damon’s eyes.

  “I’m tellin’ the truth, man. I lost it.”

  “Don’t worry, we found it,” Sledge said matter of factly.

  Damon stared at him. Sledge was sure it was fear he saw in his eyes. He asked, “After you wiped your hands off, what did you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you take the ‘decoration’ down the ladder then?”

  “Not until Garfield wrapped it up in something.”

  “Like what?”

  Damon sat back in his chair, sprawling his good leg out under the table. “I don’t know—a towel or somethin’ he got from somewhere.”

  “Was he wearing gloves, Jackson?” Gonzales asked.