Laying Down the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  After donning a pair of blue booties she’d obtained from one of the techs, she walked toward me, raising a hand in greeting. “Good morning, Officer Luz.”

  Good? Hardly. Nonetheless, I raised a hand in reply.

  Circling wide, she watched her step as she came around the front of the victim. “Oh, yeah. He’s dead all right.”

  A choking sound spurted involuntarily from me.

  Jackson glanced over at me, her brown eyes soft with concern. “This your first corpse, Officer Luz?”

  Despite my attempts to hold them back, tears filled my eyes as I nodded.

  “I’d like to say it gets easier,” she said, giving me a consoling look before turning back to the victim, “but it doesn’t. It can get much worse than this, in fact. And if you remain a cop, it will.”

  I didn’t want to think how much worse it could get, so I refused to let my mind go there.

  She pulled out a notepad. “What do you know so far?”

  “Not much.” I gestured at Clark Dennison, who’d taken a seat on the curb outside the tape to wait. “That’s the guy who found the victim. He was jogging and came over here to relieve himself. That’s when he spotted the body.”

  “Did he touch it?”

  “He says no.”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “Only his wrist to check for a pulse.”

  Jackson glanced around, her gaze landing on my vomit. “Looks like this guy might have been sick or overdosed before getting his face ripped off. Or maybe whoever did this to him threw up.”

  I shook my head. “The vomit’s mine.”

  “Ah.” Her nose twitched. “I’ll let the techs know they don’t need to collect it as evidence.” She looked my way again. “You’re looking awfully green. You’re not going to throw up again, are you?”

  I shook my head. “My stomach’s empty.”

  “You can go on, if you’d like.” She angled her head as if evaluating my condition. “But if you’re up to it you’re welcome to stick around and listen in. It’s not every day we get a homicide investigation.”

  Thank God. No way could I deal with this type of horrific crime on a regular basis. Still, I knew if I wanted to make detective, I’d have to learn how to handle these types of gruesome situations. “I appreciate the offer, Detective Jackson. I’ll stick around.”

  Detective Jackson had become a mentor to me during the bombing case. She knew I aspired to make detective one day and, despite her hectic schedule, made time to help me out and provide pointers when she could. I appreciated her taking me under her wing.

  I followed her over to Clark Dennison.

  “Mr. Dennison? I’m Detective Audrey Jackson.” She reached out and gave his hand a shake before pulling a notepad, pen, and small digital tape recorder from the pocket of her windbreaker. “Mind if I tape this conversation?”

  “Okay with me,” Clark replied.

  I suspected she was taping the interaction so that she could review it later, see if there were any tidbits that might seem insignificant now but that could provide additional leads later if a suspect could not be identified immediately.

  Detective Jackson pushed a button on the device to begin recording. “Interview with Clark Dennison, Monday, February ninth—” she glanced at her wristwatch—“9:13 A.M.” She looked up at Mr. Dennison. “Can you tell me how you happened to find the body?”

  The man repeated the story he’d told me, that he’d been jogging, felt the urge to urinate, and headed into the woods only to come across the corpse.

  “You recognize the deceased?” Jackson asked.

  I mentally grimaced. I don’t know that anyone would recognize the man now, even the man himself if he were still alive. Kind of hard to identify someone whose face has been pulverized beyond recognition.

  “No,” Dennison said. “I don’t know him.”

  She asked some of the same questions I had, telling me that, despite my overwhelming sense of panic and nausea, my short interrogation had been on the mark.

  “You touch him?” she asked. “Maybe check to see if he was breathing or had a pulse?”

  “No,” Dennison replied. “It was clear the guy was dead. I mean, he doesn’t even have a face anymore and his neck looks like someone took a steak knife to it and tried to saw clean through.”

  Oh, God.

  Never mind that my stomach was empty, it was going to try to purge itself nonetheless. My mouth expelled a loud burping sound, which was only partially stifled by the hand I’d placed over my lips. “Excuse me.”

  After casting me a pitying look that said she doubted whether I could stomach detective work, Jackson returned her attention to Dennison. “Did you notice anyone leaving the scene?”

  “No,” Clark said. “All I saw were other joggers and a couple of women pushing kids in strollers.”

  “Did you hear anything unusual?”

  “Like what?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Rustling in the woods. Birds cawing as they were scared off. Shouting or footsteps. A car or motorcycle taking off quickly. Anything like that?”

  Dennison ran his fingers through his hair and left his hand atop his head, cupping his scalp. “Not that I can recall. Honestly, I was so shocked I’m not sure I would’ve even noticed anything like that.”

  Jackson looked Dennison up and down. “You’re in good shape. You jog here every day?”

  “Most weekdays,” the man said. “Weekends I sleep in.”

  She scanned the vicinity. “Ever notice anything odd when you were here? Someone loitering? People arguing? Anything like that?”

  “I’ve run across some teenagers I suspected were skipping school,” he said. “But that’s it.”

  “When was this?”

  Dennison looked up in thought. “Week or two ago.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Two boys, one girl.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “One of the boys was black. Average size. Short hair. The other boy was white. Tall. I think he had brown hair but I don’t remember for sure. The girl was white, too. Long blond hair. Kind of chunky.”

  “Did you recognize them?”

  “No. I hadn’t seen them before and I haven’t seen them since.”

  “What were they wearing?”

  Dennison was unsure. “All I can say is they were dressed casual, like kids would dress for school. None of their clothing made a big impression on me.”

  “Any distinguishing characteristics? Scars? Tattoos? That kind of thing?”

  “I didn’t get close enough to tell. The two white kids were smoking cigarettes. I remember that.”

  Detective Jackson reached under her windbreaker to pull a business card from the breast pocket of her pink button-down. “If you think of anything else or see those kids again, give me a call right away.”

  “I will.”

  With that, Dennison left.

  The detective motioned for me to follow her. “You up for taking a closer look?”

  No! “Yes.” I took a deep breath to fortify myself and wrapped Brigit’s leash tightly around my hand to keep her from disturbing the crime scene.

  Keeping a ten-foot span between herself and the victim, Jackson slowly walked a circle around the body and the tech photographing it. Brigit and I followed along. The detective stopped when she faced the body, bending down to get a straight-on look. When she was done, she looked up at me. “Okay, Padawan. Give me your observations.”

  Observations. Hmm …

  I looked around. “I don’t see a trail of blood, so it doesn’t look like he was just dumped here. He was probably killed here, too.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “The killer used something jagged on his neck. Maybe a serrated knife.”

  “Not a knife,” called the tech, who was crouching next to the body with his camera. He reached out with a hand clad in a blue latex glove and lifted the end of a narrow chain from the wound in the victim’s neck. “A
chain.”

  He tugged on the chain, slowly pulling it out from the victim’s neck where it was embedded, pieces of bloody flesh sticking to it as it came free. Ew.

  The chain looked too thick and had loops too big to be a typical necklace, but it was too small for other typical purposes, like towing a car or securing a fence.

  Jackson must have had the same thought. “Any idea what kind of chain that is?”

  My first thought was that it could be a man’s rosary, but it lacked the requisite prayer beads. “Could it be a chain for military dog tags?” Maybe our victim was a veteran.

  The tech chimed in now. “No, not dog tags. Those hang from a ball chain. This chain has open loops. Looks to me like something Mr. T would wear. Could be the suspect’s a gangbanger.”

  “We’ve got plenty of those around here.” Jackson gestured to the body. “What about his face? How do you think the killer did that?”

  I eyed what remained of the dead man’s cheek. It contained four dark bruises spaced at even intervals. The two marks in the center were slightly darker than the outer two. I looked around, noting a few jagged stones and pointy tree limbs on the ground. “Was he hit repeatedly with a rock maybe? Or a stick?”

  “Nope. The spacing is too precise. Whoever hit the victim was wearing brass knuckles.”

  Ouch.

  “Look here.” Jackson pointed at something small and white lodged in the bark of a tree a few feet away.

  I stepped closer. Oh, my God! It was a tooth!

  The tech pulled a tongue depressor from his tool kit. “This killer was brutal. Take a look at this.” He used the wooden stick to lift the dead man’s blood-caked upper lip, revealing a set of jagged, broken teeth. “I better collect the fragments.” He exchanged the tongue depressor for a pair of oversized tweezers and began to pick small white objects, which I’d originally mistaken for pebbles, from the ground.

  Again my stomach attempted to purge itself. I made a mental note to take a Dramamine next time a corpse cropped up on my to-do list.

  The second tech joined the first and began to pat down the dead man’s pockets. Finding nothing in the pants or outer jacket pockets, he reached inside to check the inside pockets. “No wallet. No ID. Nothing.”

  Jackson pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll call the station. See if we’ve got any missing person reports that fit his description.”

  She placed the call, was put on hold for a minute, then said, “Thanks.” She put her phone away. “No missing person reports. Not yet, anyway.”

  Who was this man?

  And why did someone kill him?

  I felt a tug on the leash in my hand, Brigit trying to pull me over to the body.

  “No, girl.” She was probably curious, but no way did I want to get any closer. This was just too damn creepy.

  Brigit tugged again, refusing to take no for an answer, this time digging her claws into the soft dirt and leaning toward the body.

  I nudged her furry butt with my knee. “I said ‘no, girl!’”

  The techs and Jackson looked our way. An embarrassed flush burned my cheeks. Brigit was making me look like an idiot, like I couldn’t control my dog.

  Brigit woofed and tugged again. That’s when I realized she was trying to tell me something.

  I looked from the techs to the detective. “I think she smells something and wants to check it out. Is it okay to let her get closer?”

  “Sure,” the lead tech said. “Can’t hurt anything at this point.”

  I led Brigit over, letting the leash out a few inches so her head could move freely. She began to snuffle along the body, her nose twitching and wiggling as she sniffed, thankfully starting at the guy’s boots. She made her way up his calves, nudged a knee, and thoroughly sniffed his thigh. She sat back then, giving her passive alert.

  “She’s indicating there’s drugs on him,” I explained.

  The tech frowned. “I already checked his pockets.”

  Jackson stepped up beside me. “Check inside his pants.”

  The tech carefully unzipped the man’s jeans and pulled them down a few inches, revealing a pair of blue briefs and hairy thighs. Sure enough, a plastic bag containing small white crystals was affixed with medical tape to a shaved spot on the guy’s thigh.

  “Aha,” Jackson said. “Looks like fuzzy-wuzzy discovered a possible motive.”

  Drugs. Not a surprise, really. Drugs played a huge part in crime. Many of those who committed crimes were high on drugs at the time. Others committed crimes in order to get money to buy drugs.

  “Good girl!” I praised my partner, retrieved a liver treat from the stash in my jacket, and held it out to her.

  She took the treat from my fingers, wolfed it down, and began to snuffle around in the nearby trees, probably scenting a squirrel or raccoon.

  A call came in on my shoulder radio, reporting a disabled vehicle impeding traffic on Rosedale. “I better get back to work.”

  Jackson lifted her chin in acknowledgment. “I’ll let you know what we find out.”

  As Brigit and I headed back to our cruiser, I found myself wanting to talk to Seth. He’d seen people killed in Afghanistan, seen people die in fires here. Surely he could help me deal with this murder.

  What do you know? Maybe I did need him for something, after all.

  ELEVEN

  HOME, STINK, HOME

  Brigit

  She’d wanted really bad to roll on that man’s dead body. Wasn’t that what dead things were for? Rolling on? But given Megan’s tight hold on her leash, Brigit knew she’d get in trouble if she tried. She’d had to settle for rolling on a squirrel in the parking lot. The flat, dried-out thing was days old, its odor mostly gone. Not much of a consolation prize, but the dog would take what she could get.

  Brigit wasn’t quite sure why Megan kept taking her to empty houses, but she liked this one. It smelled great. Like mildew and wood rot. The carpet also bore scents of sweaty feet and spilled milk. The backyard was great, too. Very little grass so she’d have an easy time digging holes if given the chance.

  The evening was even better. Seth brought Blast with him to Megan’s apartment. While their meal tickets talked on the couch, Brigit and Blast wrangled and wrestled on the carpet. Brigit bested Blast, flipping him over onto his back. She went for his throat. Playfully, of course, mouthing his fur without sinking her teeth into him. From the way he wriggled on his back and begged for more, Brigit suspected he liked it. Megan and Seth ought to give it a try sometime. The two looked like they could use some fun.

  TWELVE

  FAMILY REUNION

  Dub

  “Pleeeeeease?” Dub begged. He knew Wes would give in eventually. “Just one burrito. All that basketball made me hungry.” Dub had spent the last two hours playing in a drop-in game at the Y while Wes sat in a nearby Starbucks, grading exams. “I’m a growing boy. I need nourishment.”

  “You can hardly say a fast-food burrito is nourishing,” Wes said. “We’ve got plenty of healthy stuff in the fridge at home. Spinach. Broccoli. Brussels sprouts. Tofu…”

  The grin on Wes’s face told Dub his foster father was only teasing. Sure enough, Wes turned his Civic into the drive-thru lane at Taco Bell.

  They waited as a woman with what looked like an entire girls’ soccer team in her SUV placed a long and complicated order, turning back to the girls several times to discuss the “hold this’s” and “extra that’s.”

  “Girls,” Wes said, rolling his eyes.

  Dub emitted a grunt of agreement, though actually, their pickiness aside, he thought girls weren’t bad at all. Unlike Mark Stallworth, the puberty fairy had visited Dub early, tapping him quite hard with her magical sparkling wand. He’d had facial hair by age twelve and was often mistaken for an adult. The guy who’d come to their door the other day trying to selling them new gutters hadn’t asked to see Dub’s parents. He’d assumed Dub was the owner of the house.

  Their team’s order finally done, the woman drove for
ward and Wes pulled up to the menu board.

  A woman’s voice came through the speaker. “Welcome to Taco Bell. What can I get you today?”

  Holy shit.

  That Tennessee twang was unmistakable. What happened Sunday night could land Dub in a world of trouble, and so could the woman whose voice had just come through the speaker.

  Wes leaned his head out the window. “One bean burrito,” he called.

  The woman repeated the order and gave him a total. Wes thanked her and began to pull forward.

  “Wait!” Dub cried.

  Wes slammed on the brakes. “What is it?”

  Dub opened the passenger door. “I’ll be right back. I need to go inside and use the bathroom.” Dub hopped out the door and slammed it behind him.

  He did not want the woman working the drive-thru to see him. He couldn’t let her see him. If she did, everything he’d worked so hard for would be over.

  Yet he wanted to see her.

  Needed to.

  Dub pulled the white hood of his Tornadoes sweatshirt over his head and walked into the restaurant. He turned left into the dining area rather than right toward the food counter. Keeping his face ducked, he circled around to the drink machine. Taking a deep breath, he dared a look behind the counter.

  There she was.

  Standing inside the drive-thru window was a small black woman, barely five feet, wearing a colorful Taco Bell uniform. She wore her dark hair in a springy Afro. She’d never been able to afford to have her curls relaxed. Dub was glad about that. She looked cute this way, more real, younger and less processed and pretend.

  She turned to talk to one of her coworkers. Her face had no bruises or cuts, no swollen mouth. She still had the thick scar on her upper lip where it had been split open a few years ago, but that had healed as much as it ever would. Her eyes looked clear. She’d put on some weight, too, no longer looking like one of those half-starved refugees on TV.

  Thank God.

  Relieved, he turned to go. He was nearly to the exit door when her voice came again.

  “Wade?” she cried. “Is that you?”