by Tim Downs
“I didn’t mean to.”
“That doesn’t matter. The point is, you did—and that makes you responsible for her safety.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not sure you do. Alena is vulnerable—she’s lonely, and she’s isolated, and someone with the wrong motives could take advantage of her. She’s been deeply hurt all her life; I don’t want to see her get hurt again. I have to trust you too, Nick—I have to know you’ll look out for her.”
“That’s why I’m here, Gunner—that’s why I was at Alena’s last night. I’m not sure what happened to Marge yet—maybe she took a trip somewhere, maybe she got depressed and just took off. Who knows? Bosco the Wonder Dog just got his butt whipped by a three-legged mongrel—maybe she went shopping for a new dog. It’s only a hunch I have about Marge, but I wanted Alena to know—just in case.”
“She needs more than a warning.”
“I know that too. I’m going back up there tomorrow morning—after I talk to the police about Marge.”
“You won’t mention Alena to the police.”
“Not a chance. Marge kept Alena out of the picture—I want to leave it that way.”
“So how can I help?”
“You can help me think,” Nick said. “If I am right about Marge, then we’ve got a killer loose—and the same guy who killed Marge knows the story behind the bodies at the Patriot Center. It looks like the murders there were spread out over a period of thirty years, and that graveyard isn’t far from here. That means the perpetrator was almost certainly a local—someone from Endor or one of the other towns nearby.”
“That makes sense.”
“You’ve been around here a long time, right? You must know just about everybody in town.”
“Everybody in Endor—half the people in Front Royal too.”
“Then help me out here. Who do you know who might be capable of murder?”
Gunner began to chuckle.
“Did I say something funny?”
“To someone in my profession, yes.”
“So what’s the joke?”
“You know what I like about being a pastor, Nick? I don’t have to go around spouting some nonsense like ‘Human beings are basically good.’”
“I thought pastors were supposed to believe that.”
“Not the ones who read their Bibles. I’d like to believe it—unfortunately, there’s just too much evidence to the contrary. The Bible treats people as fallen—made in the image of God but corrupted in a fundamental way. Fatally flawed, you might say—that’s the human dilemma, and nobody is exempt. You asked, ‘Who do you know who might be capable of murder?’ The answer to your question is, ‘Everybody— every man, every woman, and even the children by a certain age.’”
“Must be a tough town.”
“No tougher than anywhere else. People are people, Nick. That’s the problem; that’s the human dilemma.”
“Everybody,” Nick said. “That doesn’t help me a lot—I’m trying to narrow the field.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Keep an open mind—especially when it comes to the human capacity for evil. That’s what I try to do; there are fewer surprises that way. Everybody has the capacity to do evil—all they need is the right frame of mind.”
“Okay,” Nick said. “Then who do you know who might have the frame of mind?”
“Let me think about that one,” Gunner said. “I have to be careful. Pastors tend to hear a lot of confessions. If I start pointing the finger at everyone who’s ever admitted a bad attitude to me, I’ll be pointing out half the people in town.”
“I’m not interested in bad attitudes,” Nick said. “I’m looking for someone who has a reason to kill.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know people who’ve been robbed of their life’s savings; parents who’ve lost kids to drunk drivers; wives who’ve been abandoned by husbands after thirty faithful years of marriage. Everybody has a reason to kill somebody; most people don’t do it. It isn’t just about reason—it’s about what’s going on in your heart, and that’s what God wants to change.”
“Now you’re starting to preach.”
“You’re in a church—what did you expect? To believe what I believe and not want to tell you about it would be the worst kind of hypocrisy. If you had cancer, wouldn’t you want the doctor to tell you? And if there was a cure, wouldn’t you want to know? That’s what I tell people: You’re a part of the human dilemma too, and I think there’s a cure. Let’s grab that beer sometime; we can talk more about it then.”
“Thanks.” Nick got up from the pew and stretched. “You said you go to Alena whenever she sends for you. How does she send for you if she doesn’t have a phone?”
“She sends a dog—a little one, about so high. Ugly little cuss. His name is Ruckus.”
“The dog knows where you live?”
“He knows what I smell like. He stops here first; if I’m not home, he’ll search all over town until he finds me.”
“Sort of like ‘call forwarding,’” Nick said.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“What about that three-legged dog that always seems to be with her?”
“That’s Trygg—she’s the most special of all.”
“Why?”
“Has anyone told you the story about the witch who wanders the woods at night in search of her father’s soul?”
“I think Agnes told me that one.”
“Well—that one happens to be true.”
21
Nick rapped his knuckles on the trailer door; it sounded tinny and hollow, like the door of a cheap car.
Alena opened the door and looked at him. “What did you do this time, knock down my fence?”
“I brought you a gift,” Nick said, holding out a small package.
“It’s a little early for pizza.”
“You’re obviously not a college student. May I come in?”
She hesitated but eventually opened the door and took the box.
Nick stepped into the trailer. In the living room he saw half a dozen puppies of various shapes and sizes—as Gunner said, “not a purebred among them.” They were curled up on the sofa and wandering the floor; one was sniffing at a spot on the carpet while another was gnawing on a rawhide toy. Alena walked to the sofa and scooped up one of the puppies along the way. She sat down and set the puppy on her lap, then rolled it over onto its back and began to massage its pink tummy and the undersides of its legs.
Nick watched. “What is this, a day spa for dogs?”
Alena gave him a look—half boredom, half disgust.
“Sorry,” Nick said. “I tend to be a wise guy. I’ve spent my whole life developing the habit, and I’m probably not going to change for you. May I ask what you’re doing?”
“Touching.”
“I can see that. Why?”
“Some of these dogs will become service dogs, that’s why. They’ll be around people and they’ll be in public places—you don’t want a dog to bite someone just because someone accidentally touched a sensitive spot. This is part of his socialization, okay?”
“Did you learn that from your dad?”
She looked annoyed and didn’t reply.
Nick started toward the sofa but stopped when his eye caught a framed certificate hanging on the wall. “Well, what do you know.”
“What?”
“A diploma—and it isn’t from Hogwarts. ‘Alena Savard, BS in Behavioral Science, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University.’ You’ve got a college degree.”
“So?”
“You don’t exactly advertise it.”
“What am I supposed to do, wear my diploma around my neck?”
“They call me Dr. Polchak. You’re a Virginia Tech graduate—did you put yourself through college?”
“It’s no big deal. I’m still paying off the loans.”
/> “It’s a very big deal,” Nick said. “I hope you’re proud of yourself— you should be.” He took a seat on the sectional across from her. One of the puppies rose from its slumber, trotted over to Nick, and curled up next to his thigh. “Friendly dogs,” he said.
“They’re young—they don’t know any better.”
“Maybe they know who they can trust. I hear animals have pretty good instincts.”
“Instincts can be mistaken. That’s what brains are for.”
Nick pointed to the package beside her. “You haven’t opened your gift yet.”
“What is it?”
“Well, you could have your gift-sniffing dog check it out. Personally, I’d open it.”
She opened the box and removed a small silver object—a combination padlock.
“It’s the least I could do,” Nick said.
“Do you know the combination?”
“You know, you’re a very suspicious person. Here, let me have it— I’ll put it on the gate when I leave.”
“And when will that be?”
Nick smiled pleasantly. “Later—I hope. Do you mind if I ask a favor?”
“What kind of favor?”
“I’d like you to say my name.”
“What?”
“My name—it’s ‘Nick.’”
“I know what it is. Why do you want me to say it?”
“Because I’m not a dog, I’m a man. You can’t just snap your fingers and give me a command—I’m a little more complex than that. Go ahead, try it—just say, ‘Nick.’”
“This is stupid.”
“Just once.”
“Okay, Nick. There—are you satisfied?”
“It would sound a little better if you didn’t vomit it up, but it’s a start.”
“Is that what you came all the way up here for?”
“No—just a friendly visit.”
Alena glared at him. “I can’t just sit here with you all day—I’ve got work to do.”
“Tummies to rub?”
“No—dogs to train.”
“Great! Mind if I tag along?”
“Why?”
“Know what I do for a living? I study the insects that are attracted to decomposing human flesh. They find bodies the same way that dog of yours does—only they do it by instinct, and you have to teach the dog. I’d love to see how you do that.”
She hesitated. “Is that the only way I can get rid of you?”
“It’s all that comes to mind.”
“Will you stay out of my way?”
“Don’t I always?”
She shook her head in resignation. “Grab a puppy and come on.”
They set the last of the puppies in the grassy clearing. Alena opened a sealed bag and took out a six-inch length of PVC pipe with holes drilled in the sides and a cap on either end.
“What’s that?” Nick asked.
“Death.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is a scent vial; it contains the scent of decomposing human flesh.”
Nick held out his hand. “May I?”
She handed him the vial. “Don’t touch the sides—you’ll contaminate the scent.”
Nick held the vial by one end and carefully sniffed. “Yep, that’s the real thing all right.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s not?”
“Where would I get the real thing? This is called Pseudo Corpse Scent—there’s a company in St. Louis called Sigma-Aldrich that manufactures the stuff. They make three kinds of death scent: putrefying remains, post-putrefying remains, and submerged remains. Every kind of victim gives off a different scent, and you have to train the dog to find the specific kind of victim you’re looking for. There’s actually a fourth scent too—they make one called ‘distressed body.’”
“What’s ‘distressed body’?”
“It’s a living person who’s under intense stress. The stress changes their blood chemistry and their skin gives off an odor that a dog can detect. ‘Distressed body’ simulates that odor; Sigma-Aldrich just came up with it a few years ago.”
“So your dog can find the living too?”
“Sometimes—but only if the victim is just less than dead.”
“Actually, insects are the same way. The line between life and death is so fine that sometimes they have trouble telling the difference. Blowflies won’t land on a living, moving, breathing human being, but they will if you’re wounded and unconscious. It’s like they figure, why not? You’re just less than dead—might as well get started.”
“How do insects find the dead?”
“Different species are attracted to a body at different stages of decomposition. As the body dries out it emits different chemical indicators, and each one attracts a different kind of insect. They pick up the scent through the air, just like your dog does—only they have smell and taste receptors all over their bodies.”
He bent down and began to look through Alena’s equipment box.
“Hey—keep your nose out of my stuff.”
“I’m supposed to be learning here.” He took out a second plastic bag containing a short length of PVC pipe. “What’s this one?”
“Submerged remains.”
“That’s interesting. When a body decomposes in a wet environment it forms a waxy substance called adipocere—that must be what the dog is detecting.” He held the bag up to Alena. “Do you mind?”
“Knock yourself out—if you’re not careful, you will.”
Nick opened the bag and sniffed. “It smells just like the other one. I can’t tell the difference.”
“That’s because you only have about five million olfactory cells in your nose; a dog can have two hundred million—one-eighth of its brain is dedicated to smell. Dogs have an incredible ability to distinguish scents. You walk into a kitchen and smell beef stew; a dog walks into a kitchen and smells beef, carrots, peas, potatoes—it’s called ‘odor layering.’ He can even smell the salt—even in a dilution of one in ten million.”
“Question,” Nick said. “If a dog’s sense of smell is so much more sensitive than a man’s, how come a dog will stick its nose in your crotch?”
She squinted at him. “Are you always like this?”
“What? That was a good question.”
She set the scent vial down on the ground and placed one of the puppies in front of it. The dog sniffed at the vial once, then cowered and backed away.
“See what he’s doing? A lot of dogs are instinctively repulsed by the smell of death. He’s out—he’ll never make a cadaver dog.”
“Just like that? No second chances?”
“It isn’t something he can learn. He was either born with it or he wasn’t—and he wasn’t. It’s not his gift.” She picked up the dog and looked into its eyes. “No—he doesn’t have it in him. I should have seen it before.”
“Wait a minute,” Nick said. He picked up a second dog and handed it to her. “Try this one—but look at it first and tell me what you think it’ll do.”
She took the dog and looked into its eyes. “This one’s all play and no work—he’ll have the opposite problem.” She set the dog in front of the vial and watched; the dog took the vial in its mouth and began to run off. She reached down and lifted it by the scruff of its neck. “Some dogs love the scent of death—they’re no good either. You’re looking for a dog that doesn’t care—a dog that will treat it just like any other smell.”
She tested three more puppies; the third one sniffed at the vial and made no response at all. Alena looked at its face. “He might make it, he might not.”
“You’re tough,” Nick said. “I should have you take a look at some of my grad students.”
“There’s no sense wasting your time. They either have it or they don’t.”
She handed the dog to Nick, who held it awkwardly against his chest while she set up three cinder blocks about ten feet apart. She hid the scent vial inside the center cinder block, then took the puppy back again.
Nick looked down at his chest; there was a large wet spot on his shirt. “This is why I don’t like mammals.”
Alena smiled. “You’re right: Animals do have pretty good instincts.”
Nick shook his head. “Now she gets a sense of humor.”
Alena set the dog down a few feet from the cinder blocks, then reached into her pocket and took out a small, round, mahogany-colored object; she pointed it at the dog like a key fob.
“What’s that?” Nick asked.
“You’ll see.”
They watched while the dog wandered aimlessly around the cinder blocks. After a few minutes it approached an empty block and sniffed at it; Alena did nothing and the dog wandered off again. A few minutes later it approached the center cinder block; the instant its nose neared the concrete, Alena worked her thumb, and the object in her hand made a crickety clicking sound—CLICK clack. She immediately ran to the dog and lavished it with affection.
Nick pointed to the clicker. “May I see that?”
She hesitated, but handed it to him.
Nick adjusted his glasses and looked at it. It was a glossy round buckeye with a thumb-sized slot carved into one side; projecting out of the slot was a thin tab of gunmetal steel. He pushed it with his thumb— CLICK clack. “It’s beautiful,” he said, handing it back.
“My father used to make them.”
“This is classic operant conditioning. You’re using that clicker to reinforce the behavior you’re looking for.”
“That’s right.” She moved the dog away and set it down again. This time it returned to the cinder block in half the time, and Alena once again hit the clicker and showered it with praise.
“He learns fast,” Nick said. “I’ve had freshmen who need a semester to get that far.”
“He’s just imprinting on the cinder block—now we have to tell him what he’s really looking for.” She moved the vial to the first cinder block and released the dog again; it immediately trotted to the same cinder block as before and waited for its reward—but this time there was none. The dog seemed confused. It pawed at the block and stared, but eventually lost interest and wandered away. When it finally approached the block concealing the scent vial—CLICK clack—Alena once again operated the clicker and praised the dog.