by Diane Kelly
I unclipped Brigit’s leash, gave her the signal, and off she went. She put her nose in the air, her nostrils twitching as she processed the olfactory data. She scrambled through the first room and into the second, where a refrigerator hummed alongside a built-in countertop. Brigit first sniffed around the fridge, then put her paws on the countertop, sliding sideways down the counter, sniff-sniff-sniffing until she reached a coffeemaker with a pot half-full of lukewarm coffee. She nudged the lid where the grounds and water were housed, took one last big sniff, then plopped back to the floor, where she sat at alert. She glanced over at me as if to say, Come on, Megan! I’ve done my job. Now you do yours!
I went over to the coffeepot and lifted it up. No drugs underneath it. None inside the pot, either. I lifted the lid off the top. All I saw was a chamber half-filled with water and a soggy filter filled with moist grounds.
I looked down at the dog. She woofed, almost as if she was telling me to take a closer look.
I poked a finger into the grounds and stirred them up. A-ha! Buried in the grounds was a plastic Baggie with the doobie inside. I pulled out the bag and bent down to my partner. “Good job! Good girl!” She’d earned a nice scratch behind the ears for that solid piece of police work.
Now for the meth.
I gave Brigit the signal to continue her search. She put her nose in the air again, holding it there as she pranced into the last room. This room was packed solid with boxes and bags, buckets and bins, a virtual hoarder’s paradise.
Brigit sniffed the floor around the perimeter of the pile. No luck. She raised her nose to the air, sniffed, and began to scale the pile.
Buckets and boxes and bins slid to the floor as she made her way to the center of the heap. She began to dig then, shredding through a couple of cardboard boxes until she reached a large blue plastic tub, the kind a person might store holiday decorations in. She sniffed around the seal, then sat back at alert, having to fight to keep her ground as boxes and bags slid out from under her.
I pushed the clutter aside and cleared a way to the tub. When I opened it, I found another, smaller airtight tub inside. I continued on until finally finding the bag of meth tucked inside a series of five airtight containers and wrapped in a towel doused with kerosene.
Hank shook his head in awe. “That’s damn impressive. I thought surely the kerosene would stump her.”
Evidently nothing could stump my partner.
After the hands-on training, Hank gave us a lecture on the legalities surrounding the use of dogs in building searches.
“Be especially careful when searching residences,” he warned, telling us that in the case of Florida v. Jardines the Supreme Court had deemed a home search to be illegal when officers deployed a drug detection dog on the front porch of a suspected drug dealer. When the dog signaled the presence of drugs, police raided the house and found a marijuana-growing operation on the premises. The defense argued that the dog should not have been brought onto the private premises to perform the sniff test and that by so doing the officers violated the Fourth Amendment.
“However,” Hank continued, “you can allow your dog to sniff trash at the curb or the outside of a vehicle that you pull over. People don’t have a reasonable expectation of privacy in those cases.” He informed us that this area of law was continually evolving and that we should take pains to remain up-to-date lest our searches be deemed unconstitutional and criminals go unpunished.
For the final lesson of the day, we ventured back outside, where we human trainees donned attack gear: padded suits and helmets with face protection. The suit was thick and heavy and hot and smelled moldy and ripe. Guess it wasn’t an easy thing to clean.
One at a time, the instructor lined us handlers up on one end of a field, a dog on the other. Because it was imperative that each handler’s dog view his or her human partner as the superior, none of us could be attacked by our own dogs. Given that Brigit was the biggest of the bunch, I thanked heaven for small favors. Or should I say big favors?
We played eenie-meenie-meinie-mo to determine which dog would attack us. My “mo” garnered me the midsized shepherd. The officer who’d earlier questioned Brigit’s sexual preferences ended up with her. Karma’s a bitch, no?
Brigit and her target went first. The officer jogged out into the field. Brigit crouched down next to me like a runner in the starting box, her body quivering with anticipation. When the guy was a hundred feet out, I gave Brigit the signal.
She tore out so fast she dug ruts in the ground and kicked up dirt and grass behind her. She bounded across the field, a black-and-tan blur, her feet barely touching the ground. When she made her final leap, her body arced through the air, strong yet graceful.
Smack!
On Brigit’s impact, the cop buckled in two, his upper half snapping forward, his bottom half folding under him. Brigit rode him to the ground. Prone now, he wrapped his padded arms around his head, instinctively protecting his face and throat, as Brigit grabbed the back of his suit in her teeth and jerked him back and forth.
“Good girl!” I called, following the praise with an order for her to return to my side.
She gave the cop one final tug, then released him, putting her head in the air and prancing back across the field like the belle of the ball.
The other three officers took their turns, the largest one managing, somehow, to say upright, wearing the dog on his back like a canine cape until the handler called him off.
With a sweep of two fingers, Hank gestured me out onto the field. “Officer Luz, you’re up!”
I glanced back at the shepherd. He crouched, his muscles shaking with anticipation and bloodlust. He seemed much bigger all of a sudden, his eyes more crazed, his teeth longer and sharper.
I headed out onto the field in the sweltering suit, trying to sprint as far away as possible in the hopes that the dog might be winded by the time he reached me. Wishful thinking, I know. I could barely jog in the lead suit, let alone run. Seemed I’d gotten only a foot or two into the field when I heard the handler give the command.
I’m no chicken, but when I glanced back and saw eighty pounds of furry, fanged beast tearing toward me with the intent to rip my limbs from my body I instantly regretted my decision to partner with a K-9. Should’ve turned in a resignation letter while I still had the chance.
Too late now.
Oomph!
The dog hit my back like a wrecking ball, sending me stumbling forward. Though I fought to regain my footing and stand upright where I’d have a better chance of defending myself, the impact made it impossible. Momentum carried me careening forward until I dove involuntarily to the ground, skidding forward on my hands. My chest slammed into the packed dirt, knocking what little air remained in my lungs out of me.
The dog grabbed the back of the suit between my shoulder blades and yanked with surprising force, lifting my upper body off the ground and whipping me helplessly back and forth, filling me with sheer terror from the top of my head to the tips of my toenails. I clawed at the ground, desperately and vainly seeking purchase. I’d never felt so out of control and powerless. Much more of this and the dog would give me whiplash or break my neck.
Had I been able to breathe I would’ve screamed. But while my lungs were empty, my bladder was not. My body released a short burst of urine before I was able to clench the stream to a close.
I knew this was a trained dog, that he should retreat when ordered. But Tilikum, that killer whale at SeaWorld, had been trained, too, and that hadn’t stopped him from dragging a poor woman to her death. After years of performing with large cats, Roy Horn of Siegfried & Roy was attacked by one of his beloved white tigers during a show in Las Vegas, leaving the man in critical condition with severe blood loss. Circus elephants had been known to go on a rampage or take revenge on abusive trainers.
No matter how much we humans thought we could tame and control animals, some primal instincts would always remain. There was no telling what might trigger a sudden r
egression to their brutal, base nature. I could only hope that now would not be the time this dog chose to get in touch with his inner beast.
The dog pulled in only one direction now, dragging me around the field like a life-sized rag doll. The bottom of the helmet’s faceplate dug a rut in the dirt, kicking up dust into my nose and eyes until it fell off completely, leaving my head, face, and throat exposed. I heard the officers laugh from across the field, but I knew it was false bravado. I’d seen the looks on each of their faces when their turns were up. Each one had been rattled and humbled, with a new appreciation for his K-9 partner.
After what seemed like an infinity of eternities, the cop issued the order for the dog to release me. Instantly the dog dropped me to the ground, where I lay bent, broken, and covered in dirt, my fingernails shredded, grass and earth trapped under their jagged tips.
I stayed there, unmoving, until motion to my right caught my eye. Oh, God. Seth stood outside the fence watching me, Blast beside him, wagging his tail. Blurgh. How embarrassing! So much for the fancy dinner and wine. With all the dirt, sweat, and urine coating me, I’d be lucky if Seth ever talked to me again.
After Seth gave me a good-bye wave, he and his dog stepped away from the fence and climbed into the overgrown Hot Wheel. A minute later they disappeared out of sight down the road. I wondered when or if I might cross paths with Seth again.
“Class dismissed!” Hank called from across the field. “See y’all tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.”
Though I hadn’t issued the order, Brigit loped across the field, returning to my side. I rolled onto my back and forced myself to a sitting position. When I tried to stand, Brigit shoved her nose into the crotch of the suit. I shoved her face away. “Stop it!”
While the others gathered up their dogs and headed out, I ambled slowly across the field. By that point I’d worked up such a sweat inside the suit that my entire body felt wet. Good. Maybe the fact that I’d peed myself wouldn’t be so obvious.
FOURTEEN
THERE’S MORE TO FEAR THAN FEAR ITSELF
Brigit
Her new partner had urinated in the bite suit. Brigit could smell it. She knew what it meant. The same thing it meant when a dog rolled over on its back and peed on itself.
Her partner was scared.
Well, she should be. Police work was scary. When Brigit worked with her former partner, the dog had been shot at, had her paw slammed in a door, and nearly been run down by a car. The suspects they apprehended were vile, violent people. Virtually subhuman. Megan might as well get used to it now, learn to face her fears and fight through them. Because sooner or later the two of them would face something frightening.
And they’d have to deal with it together.
FIFTEEN
TEST RUN
The Rattler
He headed into the woods, dressed head-to-toe in camouflage, cheap canvas pants and a long-sleeved tee he’d pick up at a discount military surplus store. His backpack was slung over his shoulder, the same backpack he’d used when he’d attended college. He’d fired one up on occasion back then, and the bag still hung on to a faint scent of marijuana.
College. What an absolute waste of time that had been. What did he learn there? That people were shallow. Hypocritical. Horny. Not that he’d minded the horniness so much. He’d indulged himself in the pleasures of more than one drunken sorority girl’s flesh. His only regret was that his actions had brought pleasure to those sickeningly self-absorbed, feebleminded young women, too.
Time to set those thoughts aside. Time to practice.
The sound of an explosion wouldn’t draw much attention in the fall when it was deer season. People would likely just mistake the sound for that of a high-powered hunting rifle. But in early summer it might raise questions. Best to get as far from the neighboring ranches as possible.
This land was private, surrounded by barbed wire. But fences weren’t always respected, as he well knew. How many times had he sneaked across fields owned by others, climbed trees owned by others, swum in creeks owned by others? Why shouldn’t everyone get to enjoy the land, enjoy nature? What right did anyone have to own an earth they did not create? What happened to the grand ideals Woody Guthrie had sung about in his classic “This Land Is Your Land”?
Guthrie, who’d raised his first family in the Texas panhandle, had fought against oppression and injustice, stood behind the little guy. Deemed a radical, the singer-songwriter was targeted by alarmist anticommunist zealots in the fifties. His visions of equality and fairness proved to be mere grandiose ideals.
Pipe dreams.
This land didn’t belong to “you and me.” The United States belonged only to the rich and powerful. Democracy and capitalism constituted nothing more than legalized theft, allowing the haves to exploit the have-nots, to accumulate more property, more power.
The rich get richer. The poor get poorer.
Time to give the wealthy a wake-up call.
He continued on, stalking over the hard-packed, dusty ground. Once he was far enough into the woods, he found a small clearing and knelt down to unpack his bag. He pulled out the boxes of nails, screws, and fishhooks, as well as a rocket engine, a short piece of metal pipe, two end caps, and the alarm clock.
Once he’d perfected his skills, he’d work his way up to more sophisticated explosives. But this bomb, his first, would be a small, simple one. Cheap, too. The whole shebang would cost him less than seventy-five dollars. Lots of bang for the buck. Amazing how much destruction one could wreak for so little cost. Of course Timothy McVeigh and his cohort, Terry Nichols, had figured that out years ago. A few bags of fertilizer, a rented truck, and KABOOM! Over $650 million in damage. One hundred and sixty-eight lives ended.
Unlike McVeigh and Nichols, though, the Rattler wouldn’t be foolish enough to get caught.
He donned his helmet, protective goggles, and the ballistic vest he’d ordered online under the name Huey Kablooey. The morons in customer service and shipping hadn’t clued in. Not that he’d expected them to. The vast majority of humans had shit for brains.
He’d paid for his items with a money order purchased at a post office a six-hour drive away in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Though Texas law allowed anyone over the age of eighteen who was not a convicted felon to purchase Kevlar gear, he’d nevertheless had the items delivered to a cabin he’d rented for a week in Broken Bow, Oklahoma.
He’d splurged and treated himself to a Level IV hard-plated vest even though he didn’t think he’d need it. Still, this was his first attempt at bomb making. One could never take too many precautions, especially if one had important plans to carry out.
The ground was hard, dry, and dusty. He spread out the business page from today’s Fort Worth Star-Telegram and began assembling the bomb, consulting the instructions he’d printed from the Internet. This one would be a basic pipe bomb, controlled by a timer, of course. The model rocket engines would provide the ignition. The gunpowder would provide the power. The nails, screws, and hooks would provide the results.
As he looked over the paper, he kept an ear out for suspicious noises. A hawk flying overhead gave off a caw-caw. Something small rustled in the nearby brush, most likely a squirrel. Nothing unusual. He slapped at a mosquito that had lit on the back of his hand, intent on drawing blood. He chastised himself for not having the foresight to buy bug spray.
Despite the shade from the trees, the woods were almost unbearably warm. There was no breeze this afternoon, as if the world were holding its breath. Sweat dripped from his chin as he carefully assembled the parts. He slid a cap onto one end of the pipe and filled the tube with an assortment of nails, screws, fishhooks, and gunpowder. Next, he slid the engine into the open end of the pipe. As he went to slide the fuse through the hole in the end cap, it slipped from his fingers and fell to the dirt. He picked the fuse up, blew off the dust, and slid it through the opening. After affixing the timing device he was finally done.
Tingling with anticipation, he star
ted the stopwatch feature on his cell phone, setting the timer for nine minutes.
As he wound his way back through the woods, his pulse raced, partly from the physical exertion, partly from the excitement. He felt like a kid with a new toy.
After eight minutes had elapsed, he was a quarter mile from the site where he’d left the bomb, definitely out of range. He crouched behind a wide tree trunk and eyed the phone’s screen. One minute left. Thirty seconds. Ten.
He swatted another whining mosquito away from his face.
Three.
Two.
One.
He held his breath and stayed perfectly still, waiting for the sound of the explosion.
He waited …
and waited …
and waited.…
It didn’t come.
He stood and kicked the tree trunk. “What the fuck?”
Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he was nothing more than a good-for-nothing screwup.
A disappointment.
An embarrassment.
He put his hands to his head, unsure what to do.
Should he return to the site and attempt to assess where he’d gone wrong? If he went back, might the bomb explode in his face? He didn’t want to end up like that dolt in Exeter, England, in 2008. The would-be suicide bomber fucked up royally when detonating a bomb in a restaurant. Not only had he survived the attack; he’d also been the only one injured in the blast. What an imbecile.
But if the Rattler left the bomb out here, would someone find it?
If someone found it, would it matter?
After several minutes of deliberation and a few choice expletives spit into the still air—“Shit! Damn! Fuck!”—he decided that it was too risky to return to the site. The likelihood of anyone finding the bomb in this remote area was slim to none. If someone did find the bomb, the chances of the bomb being linked to him were also slim to none. Most likely law enforcement would assume the bomb had been made by local delinquents.