Ten Little Bloodhounds

by Virginia Lanier

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her voice was harsh as she concentrated on backing out of the space. We rode home in stony silence. She circled the courtyard, and parked with my door in front of the stone path leading to the porch steps. She placed her hand on my shoulder.

  “I know hospital rules really bug you, but you should have handled it differently.”

  I ignored her remark and gave her a brief smile with no warmth.

  “When Hank arrives, and you have the dog of your choice loaded to travel to Woodbine, please come and tell me. I’m going with you.”

  “Oh boy,” she groaned. Jasmine realized that the shit had just hit the fan.

  24

  “An Uneasy Trip”

  October 16, Monday, 11:00 A.M.

  Jasmine was silent as she held open the screen door for me as I hobbled in on the crutches. Just letting my leg hang down hurt like hell. I pasted a serene look on my face and fought back a scream of anguish when I bumped it on the edge of the desk. I eased into my chair, knowing that Jasmine was only waiting until I was settled before she explained her duplicity in consorting with Hank.

  She perched on the edge of the armchair in front of the desk and gazed earnestly into my eyes.

  “Hank wanted me to help him do a lineup with the scent machine evidence. We both knew that you shouldn’t move around on that leg. Even Dr. Sellers told you that you needed another week of bed rest and to keep off of it.

  “We knew that you would insist on going if you were told, so, yes, we agreed to sneak around and not tell you, but it was for your own good! You know, Hank has the right to try and protect your health; he’s going to be in your future, and he loves you very much.”

  I let my eyes widen, and a quizzical expression suddenly appeared on my features.

  “Where in the world did you get that information? Have I given you any indication that Hank was part of my future?”

  She closed her eyes briefly, and sadly shook her head.

  “Don’t do this, Jo Beth, you can’t give him a reason to hope and keep yanking it back when he does something to displease you. All during your stay in the hospital he was worried about you, but floating inches above the ground with happiness that you were receptive and kissed him last Monday. Don’t toy with him and mess up this latest chance to reconcile. Hank’s the best thing that ever happened to you. I know you’re angry, but please don’t take this attitude with him. He deserves better, and I think you know this.”

  The reason that her explanation made me so angry is that I knew she was perfectly correct. My stupid ego was bruised and their devious plotting had hurt me. My pride blinded me.

  “Hank had no reason to assume he was in charge of my fate, or the kennel’s. It would be wise for you to reconsider if this problem ever presents itself again. I am the one that gives orders around here, and only me.”

  My voice was soft and sad. I was full of self-pity.

  Jasmine sat a few seconds, and suddenly jumped to her feet, yelling.

  “Will you cut out this self-righteous crap! Curse me! Curse Hank! Vent your anger! Anything but sitting there with that damn martyred expression!”

  Her anger fueled mine.

  “But I feel so alone!” I wailed. I bit my lip. I didn’t mean to show my true feelings. I quickly held up my hand, trying to stem the compassionate feeling that was emanating from her in waves. The last thing I wanted from her was pity. I chose my words carefully.

  “I don’t appreciate Hank telling you every detail of our love life, such as it is, but I will inform him of this when I next speak to him. All I want from you is that you continue doing the excellent work that you have in the past and follow only my orders.”

  “My Lord,” she voiced with sarcasm, “it sounds like you’re willing to throw away our friendship of two and a half years for a silly and inconsequential misunderstanding!”

  “We were good friends, weren’t we?” I said quietly, ignoring my yammering heart that was screaming at me to shut the hell up.

  She sank back in her seat looking defeated.

  “Do you want me to leave, is that what you’re telling me? Over this?”

  “Of course not,” I said reasonably, “you do good work. As long as we understand one other and follow the rules, we can continue like this incident never happened.”

  I lowered my eyes to my telephone messages lying in front of me on the desk. I pretended to be engrossed and ignored her continued presence.

  “Incident?” Her laughter was hollow, chilling my soul.

  She stood and drew herself up to her full height.

  “I’ll stay until you’re back on your feet, and the puppies are out of danger.”

  I didn’t look up or answer, and presently I heard her leave, closing the door softly behind her.

  I heard the outer gate alarm at 12:30. I didn’t scramble to see who had come calling. If it happened to be Bubba and no one stopped him, then so be it. I felt lower than a snake in a ditch. My mood swung from morose to blinding anger at Hank. He had started throwing orders around before he even knew he was moving back in. I heard a few snatches of raised voices before Hank threw open the door and charged toward me.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he thundered when he placed his hands on the desk and towered over me, scowling. “Jasmine tells me that you’ve found out about the search; you’re mad at both of us, and want to tag along for the lineup. No way! You’re not up to it, and that’s final. I know damn well that you owe Jasmine an apology from her demeanor. If your leg is hurting you that badly, I need to take you back to the hospital. Now tell me where you have the frozen scent pads, which dog you’re sending, and I’ll go get them while you tell Jasmine you’re sorry.”

  “I’m in charge during a search or rescue. If you can’t follow this rule, then the dog and the scent articles do not leave this kennel. Is that clearly understood?”

  I had delivered this ultimatum calmly in a normal voice, and sat quietly waiting for his answer with a raised brow of inquiry.

  “Are you out of your mind? You don’t treat your friends this way just because you’re pissed at us!”

  I waited.

  He slapped the desk in anger. “The scent pads were gathered during two searches that are still open cases. You’re hindering ongoing investigations!”

  “Arrest me.”

  “You’re violating your contract with the county!”

  “Sue me.”

  Hank took a deep breath, and tried a different approach.

  “Look, Jo Beth, I’m sorry I came in here yelling at you; I know you must feel lousy. Is your leg hurting? Can I get you some water? I’m also sorry that I talked Jasmine into going along with not telling you about the search; will you forgive me?”

  Bluster and threats hadn’t worked, so now he was trying the soft soap.

  “No.”

  “No what?” He now sounded bewildered.

  “No, my leg isn’t hurting. No, I don’t want water, and no, I won’t forgive you.”

  He threw up his hands, exasperated. “When you’re ready to go, I’ll be in the car.” He headed toward the door.

  I punched in the grooming room’s number.

  “Donnie Ray, please bring the two frozen scent pads from the freezer and load Marjorie in the sheriff’s car. Don’t forget both leashes and deer jerky.”

  “Jasmine picked up the scent pads about five minutes ago. She told me to load Caesar and I just got back. Did she change her mind?”

  “No, forget Marjorie, Caesar is fine. I didn’t know she had already taken care of it. Tell Wayne I’ll be back around six or seven. If he needs me I can be reached at the Camden County sheriff’s office.”

  “You’re going too? Jasmine told me to check on you often while she was gone. What gives?”

  “Mixed signals. Hold down the fort, I’ll be back around seven.”

  “Yes’m.”

  Little Miss Hurt Feelings had been very su
re that Hank would prevail, and I’d curl up in bed indisposed. She should have known better.

  I reached for the crutches and made my way to Hank’s car and stood by his left rear door. Jasmine crawled out of the back seat to see what I wanted.

  “Jasmine, I’d appreciate you staying here. I can handle a lineup. Chet will be calling this afternoon with material to fax, and one of us has to be here to give him the code word. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” she murmured smoothly. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I clambered aboard and slammed the door before she could reach for it. We were being so polite and considerate, it made my teeth ache.

  Caesar had been leaning over the seat sniffing the deer jerky when I slid in the back. I bent over to pick up the Ziploc from the floorboard and Hank’s sudden acceleration would have broken my neck if I hadn’t been prepared for his childish display of bad temper. I had a death grip on back of the headrest of his contoured seat.

  Caesar wasn’t as lucky. The thrust took him off his feet, and the economy Chevy that the county provided didn’t have a great deal of space in back. He had rebounded off the back of the seat, rolled forward, and was jammed in the narrow slot for knees and shoes, frantically fighting to regain his feet.

  “Slow down!” I yelled angrily as I gripped Caesar’s harness to pull him back up on the plastic beside me. Hank’s quick use of his brakes gave me the momentum to pull him free and back up onto the seat. Caesar weighs right at one hundred thirty pounds. My right arm felt stretched out of shape.

  “What’s going on back there?” he asked as he sought to find my eyes in his rearview mirror. He had slowed to a crawl.

  “Your asinine driving threw Caesar off his feet. This isn’t a pissing contest. Try and use some judgment!”

  “Sorry, Caesar,” he said, raising his voice and turning to see if he was okay. “It’s your mistress’s fault, she’s driving me crazy!”

  I didn’t bother to answer. Hank raised the speed to sixty and kept it there for almost two hours. I had lowered the glass over halfway on Caesar’s side, and he had his head out and his long ears were blown backward from the rushing wind.

  As Hank approached small towns and sped up upon leaving them, he had no jerky stops and starts, just one continuing smooth movement. He was an excellent driver. I must have stung his pride on deriding his driving skills.

  We didn’t speak again until he glided to the curb in the visitors’ row of parking spaces at the Camden County Court House in Woodbine.

  “How are we gonna handle the next step?” Hank questioned, politely. “You have the crutches to contend with. Who handles the pooch?”

  “Don’t call him a pooch,” I uttered with dignity while I scrambled for an acceptable answer. Where was my brain when I informed Jasmine I wouldn’t need her services? Stupid move, but I had to live with it.

  “Would you please take Caesar’s lead until we’re in front of the lineup?” I asked politely and hadn’t scrunched my face in disgust at my forgetfulness.

  “I’d be delighted.” He walked around behind the car and opened the door.

  “Come on, pooch, let’s take a walk.”

  25

  “Fruits of the Scent Machine”

  October 16, Monday, 1:15 P.M.

  I kept silent and made an awkward figure struggling out of the cramped back seat. Some of the swelling had gone down, but the color of the leg was still eggplant, black and blue. Jasmine had slit my jeans up to my knee so I could dress myself and then had wrapped adhesive tape around it to keep it together. If I made any kind of a fashion statement, it would be disheveled and windblown. My hair had suffered so Caesar could enjoy the wind. I decided to avoid looking in mirrors or reflecting glass. I wasn’t up to pulling myself together; all my energy was focused on pulling myself across the pavement.

  Hank was letting Caesar smell the small plot of grass sloping up to the steps. I stood and counted the white marble risers. I wanted to whimper; there were twelve of the damn things.

  “Why don’t we take the elevator?” Hank said, appearing at my elbow.

  “Thank God,” I said with a grateful breath.

  He led me around some shrubbery and into a tiny cage.

  “You’re white as a sheet, Sidden,” he said, sounding gruff. “Didn’t Doc Sellers give you something to take?”

  “I’m saving it for hard times,” I commented as the elevator rumbled open. Hank slowed his steps to match my snail’s pace down the hall and into the sheriff’s office.

  Sheriff Beaman was sitting behind his desk and rose to greet us. He was dressed as I saw him last, like a sheriff of the ol’ frontier, and his slight paunch was evident in the tight-fitted Western-cut shirt. I wasn’t one who should be noticing such things, since I didn’t look too snazzy myself. They shook hands and Beaman nodded at me as I sank gracelessly into a metal side chair.

  “Hear you had a tussle with a gator,” Beaman said, beaming at both of us.

  “He won,” I commented, trying to prop up the crutches on the wall beside me. Both of them laughed and I kept an insipid smile in place. I know how to play the game, I just don’t do it often; it galls me.

  “How do you conduct this experiment, Hank?” Beaman asked, while relaxing backward in his large executive chair.

  I glanced humbly at Hank, like asking for his permission to speak. I was perched on the edge of my seat because my left leg was throbbing from the knee downward, not because I was anxious.

  “Why don’t we let Jo Beth explain?” Hank said, being generous. He was pleased as punch with me. I wasn’t embarrassing him in front of a friend.

  “Let’s hear it,” Beaman acknowledged with an expansive gesture.

  “Well … we really need an outside source as a witness, someone like a newspaper reporter or a sitting judge, so we won’t look biased, and I think the accused should have a lawyer present, you know, to advise him. A lawyer could tell him how much the evidence could or couldn’t weigh in court. What do you think, Sheriff Beaman?”

  I channeled all my attention on him, waiting nervously for his valued opinion.

  “I can handle that,” Beaman said, including Hank and me with a satisfied smile. He picked up the phone. “After all, we want to appear unbiased, don’t we?”

  I swallowed bile as I bathed both of them in my warm glow of approval and gratitude.

  Thirty minutes later we were gathered in an unused courtroom. Sheriff Beaman, Hank, and I, with Caesar lying near my feet, sat at the prosecutor’s table, and two young men looking no older than the eight black teenagers presently ensconced in the jury box sat at the defense table.

  One of the young men at the table was a cub reporter from the Camden County Crier; the other was a hastily recruited defense lawyer from the Georgia Defense League, who had been given five minutes to confer with his possible future client. We were waiting for an ADA from the District Attorney’s office.

  I glanced around the room. There were several policemen and deputies sitting in small cliques around the room. I decided it must be near a shift change, or they had an unusual amount of the hangers-on that populate small Southern courthouses.

  A man, equally immature as the others, ran into the room, skidded to a stop, and proceeded decorously to Sheriff Beaman’s side and pulled up a chair. In the hushed silence of the room, we all heard his stage whisper.

  “Has the suspect been read his rights?”

  A very good question. I saw Beaman’s angry countenance, and knew this was something he hadn’t taken care of. I glanced quickly to my right, and one of the young men at the defense table had dismay prominently displayed on his face. I now knew which was which, even if we hadn’t been introduced. The lawyer had been secretly hoping that this obvious duty had been overlooked, so that anything the suspect blurted out here could be excluded from the teenager’s future trial. I don’t believe he had any doubt that the kid was guilty, so he had been counting on them screwing up before they tried him.

&nbs
p; We all waited until the teenagers filed out, with the lawyer, then Sheriff Beaman bringing up the rear, so he could ream some asses, and after several minutes all reappeared.

  Sheriff Beaman arose and addressed us.

  “We have a lineup here that we want to conduct without bias, so no one can say it was handled incorrectly. I’m gonna let the dog handler explain the scent machine and the scent evidence she will be using.” He nodded my way.

  I stood and turned, leaning my butt against the table to support me. I didn’t touch the crutches.

  “My name is Jo Beth Sidden. I breed and train bloodhounds to mantrail, drug search, discover arson, and find cadavers. Each living person has an individual scent that is like no others. Just like fingerprints, a person’s individual scent is unique. It consists of dead skin we shed, body odor, fallen hair follicles, perspiration, and other bodily fluids that we excrete. This scent surrounds us like a fog, and sheds thousands of tiny invisible pieces with each step we take.

  “Simply explained, the dog searches out the individual scent of the person he is seeking. This is called the bloodhound’s testimony in a court of law. Now I hear a few titters, and I can understand why. Everyone is picturing a large bloodhound with his hand on the Bible, baying and pointing a paw at the guilty party. This isn’t what happens. A bloodhound has a rigid test of ability, right to judge, and strict rules to follow before he can give testimony. He has to have been recognized as an expert, such as having several prior successes in court, being certified by the AKC, and successively trail from the point of the crime to the conclusion of the search.

  “The only exception to this rule is the scent machine that gathers the air from the crime scene and stores it in a concentrated form on a sterile gauze pad; then the pad is frozen until a possible subject is found. If the chain of evidence is proven, the dog successfully picks the suspect out of an impartial lineup. Then and only then is his testimony accepted in a courtroom.