by Jaye Watson
She couldn't complain, though. It sure beat drumming up new business, which was what Dr. Burton expected all project managers to do when they ran out of reimbursable work.
"How are you doing?"
Roger's question made her jump. She slipped the packet she held back into the sample bag and sealed it. Swiveling her stool around, she worked her neck and shoulders. "Getting stiff. I'm not used to sweating over a hot microscope."
He turned the overheads on and leaned against the doorframe. "Find anything?"
"I sure have. So far five of the bags show punctures. Of those, one looks to be accidental, but the others are too precise and too tiny to be anything but deliberate. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was using a hypodermic needle."
"Why do you know better? That sounds like a logical guess to me."
Again she turned her hear side to side, tipped it up and down. "Umm. She didn't look like she was using one, not when I saw her." She pantomimed using a hypo like the insulin syringe her grandmother had used, pushing the plunger with her thumb.
"They aren't all that big. Hold on." He disappeared down the hall. In less than five minutes he was back. "Look here," he said, holding out a closed fist.
She did. Then she looked again. A tiny needle showed--just barely--between his thumb and the edge of his palm. Nothing else. "What in the world?"
Roger's hand opened. Lying almost completely inside it was a syringe, complete with needle, that fit almost completely. "I didn't know they came that small. Where did you get it?"
"It's part of a sample pack that Swenhall Products sent me last year. I don't know why, because I've no use for such things."
Picking it out of his hand, Emaline experimented with holding it. She tried to visualize how the woman in the store had grasped the packet of dog treats. With a little experimentation and some juggling, she managed to hold it so the needle projected from under her little finger. "Hand me that bag of chips, will you? No, wait. Set it on the shelf over there."
The shelf was about the same relative height as the one in the store. Emaline reached up with both hands and grasped the bag. She twisted her right wrist until the needle was aimed at the bag. After that it was a simple matter to slide it through the packaging and push the plunger. "I hope it was empty. Otherwise I've ruined my afternoon snack."
"Always assume a gun is loaded." With a grin Roger took the bag of chips from her hand. "But in this case, It wasn't. Are you going to show me?"
"Absolutely. Turn off the lights, please." She tore the bag open and dumped the chips into a convenient beaker. Sliding the bag over the inspection lamp, revolved it slowly. "There!"
A tiny spot of light shone through the yellow plastic, so tiny to be invisible under ordinary conditions.
"Bingo," Roger said. "You've got means."
"And opportunity is easy--any decent-sized grocery store would have the products. But Roger, what could be her motive? Why would anyone want to randomly kill dogs, innocent animals she's never even seen?"
"Beats me" His shrug showed the same lack of understanding as his words. "I don't even like to trap mice."
"No, neither do I. May I keep this syringe? I'd like to show it to Detective Armbruster."
"Sure. Do you want the literature that came with it?"
"Please. I'm sure it's a common item, but the more information I can provide him, the better."
He left and she went back to work. By four fifteen, she had finished inspecting all the bags and had found thirteen punctures. The swabs of the package interiors were sealed away and waiting for Stan to run tests on them.
Her email brought nothing new and Detective Armbruster was unavailable. Feeling like she had as a child when she had a secret and no one to share it with, she locked the lab, turned off her computer, and headed for the bus stop. She was nearly there when she remembered she'd driven to work.
"Darn it. I've got to keep my wits about me." She trudged back to the parking lot behind the building, wondering why on earth Harry thought she might be in danger.
At least it gave her a convenient excuse to get out of the rain.
* * * *
After a week, Emaline decided that poisoned pets was probably a very low priority. Detective Armbruster had not responded to her email giving preliminary results, nor had he done more than acknowledge receipt of the photos she'd sent him.
She knew who had killed the dogs. Armbruster knew who had killed the dogs.
"Oh. Sure, you know what she looks like, but not who she is. Or where she lives, or anything that will help you find her." She tossed her briefcase into the car, but paused before following it. "This is ridiculous. I could just as easily ride the bus. It's not like I mean anything to Harry."
As she seated herself behind the wheel, she forced herself to think of something--anything--else. Anything but a tall cop with wings of gray at his temples, a smile that reminded her of a nine-year-old boy bent on mischief. Of a voice that warmed more than her cockles.
"Damn it!" Slamming the flat of her hand against the steering wheel, she tried again to force those thoughts back down into the safe little compartment where she'd decided they belonged.
* * * *
March was certainly going out like a lamb. Along the freeway azaleas were showing bright pinks and corals and purples. The ivy that clung to retaining walls was beginning to put out tiny new leaves, and the cottonwoods on the hillside had fat, shining buds at the ends of their branches. She took the exit to the Ross Island bridge automatically and, as she did every day, wondered why whatever highway engineer had designed the circuitous route to the bridge hadn't worked harder to find a better way to connect it to the freeway.
Holgate Boulevard was in its usual spring condition--crumbling pavement punctuated with potholes--and she automatically dodged them with the ease of much practice. She was perfectly capable of getting all the way home without ever thinking about how she got there. She'd come to prefer this roundabout way because the traffic was lighter than on Powell or Division, As she made her way north on 52nd, she again paid attention to the signs of spring. How had she missed them in the past month? An enormous old rhody caught her eye at a corner, and she turned her head to admire it.
That was when she saw the woman. Elderly, a little bent, pushing a grocery cart, but not really looking like a bag lady. She was heading south, walking slowly.
A second look removed any doubt that she was the woman Emaline had seen in the grocery store, the one who'd been handling packages of dog treats with an almost fondling manner.
A horn sounded behind her and she swerved back into her lane. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. Good thing no one was coming. I could have killed us both. She signaled for a left turn at the next corner. Once out of sight of the old woman, she pulled to the curb.
Her cell's charge was almost gone, and she hoped there was enough to let her make the call.
"Detective Armbruster, please."
She was put on hold before she could ask to have him call back.
Ten minutes later her cell went dead. Thinking words best left unsaid, she tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and drove to the next corner. After making a U-turn, she went back to 52nd and cruised slowly in the direction the woman had been walking.
Nothing. The sidewalk was empty, as were those on every side street between where she'd seen the woman and Division.
She called Armbruster again as soon as she got home. This time he came on the line immediately. "Sorry. I was on another call. What can I do for you, Dr. Banister?"
"I found her. I mean, I think I found her. The woman who poisoned the dog treats. I was--"
"Whoa. I thought I told you to leave it to us."
"I have been. At least, I haven't been actively looking for her. This was a complete accident. I was on my way home, and there she was."
"Where?"
She gave him the time and location. "She was pushing a grocery cart, so I think she may live in the neighborhood. I'll be driving throu
gh there again tomorrow night--"
"Dr. Banister, wait."
"Yes?"
"You've done all you can. Please, be reasonable. Let us do what we're trained to do."
"But will you? Look for her, I mean?"
"Absolutely. Now, let me make some notes. Can you describe the woman. Clothing, hair color, was she wearing glasses? Was there anything unusual about the cart?"
Eyes closed, she brought up a mental image of the old woman. After a few seconds she gave as good a description as she could. "The cart had a red thing on it. You know. Those plastic flaps in the child seat. I'm sure it was red."
Armbruster thanked her. "I'll have the patrols in that area keep their eyes peeled. That's the best I can do. We're short-handed now, because of that gang shooting last night."
Emaline had read of the drive-by shooting in this morning's paper. Four young Hispanic boys shot, one dead and two others in critical condition. The paper had speculated that it was the beginning of a new turf war. She shuddered, thinking how much scarier the world was now, compared to twenty years ago.
Scarier? Or do we just hear more? She remembered something her grandfather had said more than once. "Good news about good people doesn't sell newspapers." The same was doubtless true of TV time.
After she'd hung up. she found her interest in dinner had waned. A cup of bouillon and a cold biscuit with butter was enough to satisfy her. Afterward she forced herself to dig out the paper she was working on for Biochemistry. It was about as boring as anything she'd ever read, despite the results she'd been excited about a month ago. Now nothing was exciting, not even the possibility that she might have located the dog killer.
Until the phone rang, until she heard from Harry, her life would be on hold.
Still, every day she took the same route home and every day she watched for an old woman pushing a grocery cart. What she saw made her realize how much she had closed her eyes to the world around her in the past few years. How did I miss so much? More to the point, why did I?
That big old house had been white the last time she remembered, and now it was pumpkin, with purple and turquoise trim. When had the little neighborhood grocery been torn down? Now there were four tall, skinny houses on the same lot, all built from the same plans, differing only in the design of their front porches. The huge paulownia tree in the next block was gone, too, the one that had always flowered so abundantly. In its place was a spindly little sapling, probably a maple from the looks of it.
She made the turn onto her street and, out of habit, glanced toward Mrs. Irvington's house. Archibald was in his usual place, nose against the window. Beside him was another dog, but she only had time for a quick glimpse before she turned into her driveway. "I really must get over to see her."
Her grandfather had taught her that trick. "Just thinking to do something don't make much of an impression. Saying it out loud makes it real."
She did take time to look across. The other dog was a little larger than Archibald, with a square black and white face. The niggling little worry about her neighbor's state of mind faded. Getting another dog meant Mrs. I had come to terms with Scooter's death. She was probably still grieving--Martha certainly was--but she would be fine, now.
Her supper was on the table when the phone rang. Emaline decided to ignore it. That's what answering machines were for, after all. And then she was dashing to answer when she heard Armbruster say, "...think we've located her. Give me a ca--"
She snatched up the phone, catching him mid-word. "I'm here. You've found the woman?"
"We think so. One of our officers--off-duty--saw a woman acting suspiciously in the BudgetMart on Glisan. She was pulling packages of dog treats from the shelf, handling them, and putting them back. When Westerman attempted to question her, the woman rammed her with a grocery cart. Westerman took her into custody."
"She's under arrest?"
"We haven't charged her yet, but--"
"Did she have a syringe?"
"Yes. Several, in fact. And a small bottle of a pale tan liquid. We'll run tests."
Emaline wanted to punch her fist into the air and shout Yes! "Can you send me a sample? Just to double check?"
"That's why I called. We'll have it delivered tomorrow morning. Can you give it priority?"
"Absolutely. Did your officer take the packets of treats too?"
"We emptied the shelves. I'll have them sent to you as well."
"Congratulations, Detective. I have to admit I wasn't too optimistic that you'd find her. It didn't seem as if..."
"As if we were working hard on it? I know. We weren't, not compared to a case involving murder, but we did keep at it. You're due most of the credit, though. We might never have known what was happening if you hadn't put the pieces together. And figured out how she was doing it."
They hung up in a mutual glow of a job well done. As she returned to her now-cold leftover casserole, Emaline wished Harry's case, whatever it was, would have such a happy ending.
Soon.
* * * *
April. Emaline's favorite month of the whole year didn't feel right this year. Oh, sure. The flowers were just as abundant. The weather was its usual mix of glorious sunshine, soggy drizzle and fast, furious hailstorms. Outdoor seating at every café was packed, and in the parks the Frisbee throwers were shirtless, even though daytime temperatures were still in the fifties.
She just couldn't find the delight in April she usually had. Harry had not called since early March. When she had delicately hinted to Armbruster that she'd like an update, he'd acted as if he had no idea what she was talking about.
"I'm about to decide Harry's a figment of my imagination," she told her friends the first Friday in April. They were at Amy's spacious condo in the Pearl, enjoying the view of the river and the stream of inbound headlights on I-84.
All three offered hugs. Amy suggested massive doses of chocolate.
"With a good Late Harvest Riesling," agreed Jerri.
"Big help you are," she told them, half laughing, while she swallowed the sob that seemed to have taken up residence in her throat. "Let's change the subject."
Which didn't do a thing to make her feel better.
She distracted herself--and them--with an update on the dog murders. "That poor old woman. She hates dogs because one killed her cat last summer. Detective Armbruster says she keeps saying it's her mission to rid the world of all dogs. He doesn't believe she's really competent to stand trial, although he is taking the case to the Grand Jury."
"Just because she doesn't like dogs doesn't give her the right to kill them," Martha said. From the expression on her face, she was in no mood to forgive, no matter how old and ill the woman who'd killed Perky was.
"No, it doesn't, but I can't really blame her for being angry. She says a couple of boys sicced their big dog on her old cat. The dog caught it and snapped its spine. Even if she could have afforded the vet bill, the cat was beyond help."
"That's awful. Did the dog owners get arrested?"
"No," Emaline said, still angry at what she'd learned. "The cop who answered the call apparently made no effort to find out who they were, and there were no witnesses except for poor Mrs. Adelman and the old man next door, who's even older than she is. He insisted that a couple of long-haired kids with droopy britches sicced their dog on the cat. The police report didn't say anything about the cat being attacked, just that a dog had been reported off-leash. That's where it ended." She spread her hands in disgust.
"Oh, that's awful. But still--"
Amy laid her arm across Martha's shoulders. "She shouldn't have done it. I agree. But can you imagine how she must have felt? Her precious cat dead, and some young punk in a uniform treating her like she's an idiot. I remember when my grandfather was still alive. He didn't get around very well, and looked older than dirt. People treated him like he was incompetent."
"What's going to happen to her?" Jerri said. "I mean, will she go to jail?"
"I doubt it," Amy s
aid. "Even if she's indicted, I can't imagine a judge locking her up. I think it's more likely she'll be put into some sort of care facility."
Martha slapped both hands on the table. "That's fine with me. As long as she can't poison any more dogs."
"You know, I think I'm going to see what more I can find out. I've been needing a new cause." Amy pulled out her Blackberry and sent herself a message. She'd taken on pro bono cases before, when they appealed to her sense of justice. If she took this one on, the cop who'd blown off Mrs. Adelman's complaint would wish he'd treated her fairly. Emaline was sure of that.
Conversation shifted to the possibility of Jerri's older son getting into Yale. Everyone had advice. Emaline, not knowing much about what a hopeful philosophy major might want in the way of classes, had little to say. When it came time to go home, she realized she hadn't heard more than half of what had been said since the discussion about the dog murders.
"I'm sorry," she told her friends. "I seem to be easily distracted these days."
"Not surprising," Jerri said. "You're worried about Harry. I've got my fingers crossed you'll hear from him this weekend."
After a round of hugs, everyone went home. On her way, Emaline resolutely refused to let herself stew about Harry's silence.
* * * *
When Armbruster appeared on her doorstep the next day, she knew.
He didn't smile as he stepped inside.
"Harry?"
"I don't... We don't know."
She sank onto the edge of the hall table. "Don't know?"
He took her hands. "Dr. Banister-- Emaline, he's disappeared. Sometime in the last week. We're not sure when. He should have checked in on Tuesday, like always, but he didn't. His contact-- They found his contact's body in the Sound yesterday. He'd been knifed."