by D. L. Keur
Jessie didn’t remind Darby that Idaho didn’t yet consider her a citizen again. She hadn’t been living back home long enough to qualify. Nor did she think that Sheriff Reid had any compunction about property seizure. The department she’d worked for down in Colorado certainly hadn’t.
“Anywhoo,” her grandfather continued, his voice mollifying. “Enough of all that. I can see plain enough you’ll not listen to reason. Today, I need your help teaching John how to be a target for the dogs.” He wasn’t looking at her, but studiously concentrating on cutting up a sausage link like it was tough steak. It was a sign that he accepted her disagreeing with him. “You up for it?” Now, he raised his eyes, glancing slantwise at her.
“I am,” Jessie said. Padded suit, here we come. Inside, her heart did a little flip, though. She’d held her own and lived to tell about it. With her granddad! …Or at least stayed equal. He’d listened. That was proven by her dad giving her a wink and a grin.
*
With hat in hand and Captain Barry Olmstead standing next to him, Reid expressed his regrets upon informing the Bigsby family of their child’s demise.
The mother—Sharon—sat abruptly, her hand going to her mouth. She didn’t scream. She didn’t weep. She just sat down on the ratty couch, her head bowing down until Landon could no longer see her face.
Her husband stood at the kitchen door, his body stiff, his face a mask. One of the sons—the oldest—stood just behind him. Both men were silent.
What bothered Reid was that nobody asked how, where, why, when, or by whose hand. They didn’t ask anything. “We’ll need one of you to come down to the morgue and formally identify the deceased once the body is recovered,” Landon said gently. “I’m sorry. I’ll send a unit when the time comes.”
The father nodded. The son just stared, his eyes stony. The mother didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge, didn’t even moan.
“If you need help with burial expenses, the county’s got a fund,” Landon added softly.
“I’ll see you out, Sheriff,” Mr. Bigsby said, stepping forward, then around Barry and him to open the front door. The man stood there silently waiting. The soft bong-bong-bong of a clock chimed the hour—8:00 A.M. Reid and Olmstead took their leave.
“Was that about the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen?” Barry asked as they got in Reid’s unit.
Landon didn’t know how to answer that. “I guess …maybe people handle grief in different ways.” Then, “I don’t have a lot of experience doing this, so….”
“None of us really do, I think. Well, maybe Martin.”
The mention of his undersheriff, presently recovering from his third surgery for a gunshot wound received during an attempted arrest that had started as a domestic dispute and ended in suicide by cop, made Landon’s temper start to rear its ugly head. Battening it back into its lockdown, he said, “Yeah. Maybe Martin, as you say.” Glancing at the captain, then, he answered the rest: “And, yeah, Barry, that is about the weirdest reaction I would not have expected from a family just informed that their kid had been murdered. That puts them at the top of my watch list as suspects.”
“Family is always suspect,” Barry replied.
Yeah. So is the boyfriend and any spurned lovers.
*
“Old dogs do it better, safer.” Darby said to John as he helped the young man get the suit on right. “I’m using one of our steadiest, but this still ain’t gonna be no picnic, I’m warning you.”
“I’m ready,” John said.
Jessie very much doubted that. So, she guessed, did her granddad. Until you experience it, you’re never ‘ready’, and this was John’s first time.
A six foot, thirty-year-old athlete who adored dogs, John held his professional dog training KA certificate from the Certification Council for Professional Dog Trainers (CCPDT). He wasn’t quite KSA (Knowledge and Skills Assessed) quality, yet, like Jessie, Oli, and Darby, but a KA (Knowledge Assessed) was respectable. More importantly, though, he had the proper empathy and attitude. That made him a promising candidate for becoming a permanent part of their operation. But John had never, ever worked with more than pets. Police, protection, and military working dogs were new to him. Today he’d get his real introduction to the more violent end of things. As a target.
Getting a dog to practice the attack on command without jeopardizing the safety, even life, of the person on whom they’re practicing that attack requires that person to, not just be wearing a padded protective suit, but to know what to do to encourage the dog that was just learning. Because John was new to this, Darby was not using a young dog, but had brought out one of the seasoned veterans that was back home in retirement. The sole purpose of today’s work with John was training him.
“The dog’s going to go for an arm or a leg,” Jessie told John. “Just go with the momentum as he grabs. Don’t fight. That comes later, once you’ve done this a while.”
She demonstrated, Darby sending Lido at her. The big male GSD, an eighty pounder, easily took Jessie to the ground, then held her until the stop command, which he instantly obeyed.
“Remember, hands up high will get them to stop.”
Darby sent the dog again, and, as he approached at a dead run, Jessie held her hands up in surrender.
The dog stopped and crouched, ready to spring, eyes on her for any aggressive movement. She started to turn her back and the dog crept forward and around, keeping his eyes on hers. She feinted, and he attacked, taking her down. She went still, and, though growling at her, teeth locked on her arm, he didn’t continue to work her. Darby recalled him.
“Okay to try it, John?” she asked once the dog had returned to Darby’s side.
“Easy,” John said with a grin, but Jessie wasn’t so sure he knew what he was about to experience, which proved out moments later as Darby again sent Lido, this time at John.
The young man went down hard, all six foot of him. He freaked out, squirming, fighting, and screaming, which, of course, made the German Shepherd even more ferociously determined. Darby called the stop, and Jessie went over to help John up. “The more you fight and struggle, the more they’re going to work you until you give up.”
“That was terrifying!”
“It is. They’re powerful and quick.”
The young man looked dubious. “I’m not sure I can do this without reacting.”
“Well, you don’t have to do it. We can call it off.”
He straightened up, and all but braced himself. “Yes, I do. You did it. You do it. I’ve seen you. I’d like to try, again.”
“Okay. We’ll do it together. Now, take a deep breath and relax. And try not to fight it. Think of it as a game. Play dead once he gets a hold of you. Give up. Let him know he’s won.”
“Some game,” John muttered, but he put his head protection back on. Then, looking toward Darby, gave the ready signal.
Darby sent the dog.
***
6 – Surprises
With John’s training session over, Jessie sent him to the side to man the emergency catch pole so her granddad could work some of the young dogs. One, a young Malinois similar in some ways to Jessie’s own Mitch when he’d been about the same age, got confused and just downed in front of her.
“Oh, no,” Darby grumbled. “Not him! He’s one of our best.”
“Give him a chance, Granddad.”
Making a threatening move, Jessie growled in her throat, then stomped toward him, bringing her arm up as if to hit him, the other rising to protect her throat. Darby, on his part, kept giving the command to attack.
Finally, she saw the dog’s attitude change. He was thinking. She threatened, again, and, this time, he launched himself. Vigorously. He came at her with such force that she wasn’t braced well enough, and down they both went, the animal tearing and ripping at her.
“Aus, AUS!” her granddad bellowed, but the dog was now in a frenzy.
Darby ran up, John approaching, too, but Jessie, feeling almost ethereall
y calm inside, warned them off. “You’ll get bitten. Let me handle it.” And, all the while, the young dog tore at her suit, trying to find flesh. This was getting dangerous.
Jessie started making long, particular vocalizations, her body as still and limp as possible, and, finally the dog eased up. “Guter Hund, braver Hund. Ganz ruhig,” Jessie whispered. And, finally, something registered. The young dog stopped and just stood panting hard, watching her, eyes bloodshot. He was very stressed.
Darby and John crept in from either side, John with the pole, its catch loop open. John got the loop on, and then Darby went in and snapped on a lead, reinforcing ‘aus’ and asking the dog to ‘fuss’. Still confused, the dog again downed instead, then gave Darby his head, closed his eyes for a moment, yawned and whined. Darby took John’s catch loop off, gave the young Malinois strokes and squatted down by him, encouraging and calming him with praise.
“How old is he, Granddad?” Jessie asked when it was safe to get up.
“A little over six months. First time working a live person instead of a bite pad. But he’s had all the pre-training. He’s impeccable …usually, anyway. Perfect in fact. You name it, he does it right.”
Checking her suit, she reset some of the straps, tightening them. “He’s big for six months. Forty pounds or so?”
Her grandfather nodded. “Forty-six this morning.”
“Which line is he?”
“Cabil.”
All straps secured, Jessie gave him the thumbs up. “Let’s try again.”
John, who was white in the face, shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he commented, and walked back to the side.
Even Darby looked skeptical. His color was up. “You up for it? He worked you pretty bad. Scared me, even, Jessica.”
“Hm-mmm. I’m fine. Send him.”
And this time, the dog did better. By the fifth send, he’d figured it out. “Smart boy,” Jessie said to Darby.
“That’s a big relief,” he said. Then: “Couldn’t do it without you, Jessica Marie.” Her granddad turned to pointedly look at her. “What’d you do to get him to quit his attack when he went nuts that first time?”
She grinned. “Dog whispering.”
He groaned and shook his head. “Right.”
“Are we done?”
“Yep. …Thought we were done and he was done for forty-five minutes ago.”
“I’ve got a test set up for my HRD dogs, so if you don’t need me—”
“Go to it, but where’s the test, so we don’t go messing it up when we take the youngsters out for group training?”
“I set up on the eighty just south of the big cedar and larch stand on the west section.”
“The hay field near Dr. Lorenson’s?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a hike, but okay. We’ll keep the pups clear of your test.”
“Thanks, Granddad.”
*
“You really think the Bigsbys are smart enough to do something to somebody and leave no real evidence?” Barry asked as they backed out of the drive.
Landon cocked an eye at his captain. He thought about the question and didn’t answer until they pulled up to the light. “Don’t know.”
“Neither do I, but, honestly, I don’t think so. They’re not particularly the clean and tidy types, if you get my drift.”
Barry was right, of course. You had to be meticulous and knowledgeable to be able to avoid leaving traces of your presence, and the Bigsbys weren’t either one. Their house and yard was unkempt, and the only reading it seemed like they did, if even that, which Landon sincerely doubted, was the Good Book, a fancy copy of which had lain like a badge on their coffee table. “Wonder how we’re doing on Sue’s apartment. Want to head over with me?”
“Sure,” Barry answered, and Landon turned toward the lake.
When they got to Sue Bigsby’s apartment, the landlord was standing there, his face shocked. No, he hadn’t seen either Sue or her roommate, one Debbie Ferris, not since he’d had to replace the hot water heater a couple of months back. Yes, they always paid their rent on time. Yes, they were good tenants. Sue worked as a waitress, and Debbie worked as a maid in a local motel. That’s all he knew.
Landon wondered how the kids, both twenty-year-olds by DMV records, could afford to rent what amounted to a luxury view apartment on less than minimum wage jobs. Pooling resources, they still couldn’t have afforded it on what they made, even with great tips.
The hint of an answer came in the form of a lockbox filled with fist-sized rolls of twenty, fifty, and hundred dollar bills. “There must be over ten grand here,” Deputy Keith Winters said, his gloved hands holding open the bag containing them for another deputy to snap an evidentiary photo.
They found no drugs, the most obvious potential income source. Nor did they find any evidence of prostitution. There was nothing incriminating on the girls’ phones or laptops, either.
They did find scribbled-on napkins from one of the two local party bars that held weekend raves—poetry. “Have somebody check out those bars, Barry,” Reid growled. “See if anybody knows anything.”
“Will do.”
“And I want a BOLO for Debbie Ferris. Find her. Preferably alive.”
***
7 – High Praise
Jessie had to focus. But focus was evading her. Her lack of it distracted Milo and Mitch. Instead of working the ground, they kept looking in her direction, emitting soft, high-pitched, questioning whines. They were worried, not for themselves, but for her.
Finally, she sat down on the ground, called them over, and, as they settled in beside her, one to either side, she draped her arms on both. “Sorry, guys. I’m just totally adrift, now. The whole plan is just a hazy mess. I can’t see a good, safe way forward without the drones.”
Milo sat up, raised a paw and landed it on her crossed leg, then reached his nose down and gave her a dog kiss. Mitch wriggled, scooted, boosting himself with his front paws until he managed to lay his whole head on her lap, then twisted himself till he was tummy up, legs in the air. She laughed—her dogs, her joy.
Taking a breath, she pushed Mitch off and got up. “Let’s try it again, shall we? And, this time, I promise, I’ll concentrate so you can, too.”
The dogs both stood, their eyes on her. She gave her ‘all’, ‘human’, and ‘dead’ signals, then, signing ‘search’, said, “Okay. Such. Seek. Find it.”
Both dogs trotted forward and, as she’d taught them, began quartering the search field, each taking a part of it, noses to the ground.
In moments, Milo alerted, laying down into his characteristic sphinx crouch-down. Mitch was still sweeping back and forth in a series of figure eights. Then he too alerted, stopping dead in his tracks, downing, his eyes focused on the ground.
“Fein! Brave Hunde,” Jessie called. “Good dogs!” she repeated, running up to drop a weighted evidence marker on the ground where they each indicated—knew they were accurate to where and what she’d buried there yesterday—and grinned.
Turning to them, again, she said, “Such. Seek. Find it,” and, again, the dogs began quartering the field.
Within twenty minutes, Milo had alerted to eight different spots where she’d buried artificial, or, more properly, synthetic human remains, Mitch to seven. Milo had nailed all of his, Mitch all but one of his. Neither dog had alerted to the pieces of dead animals she’d buried in the search field—dead mice brought in by one or another of their cats as ‘offerings’ which Jessie collected and froze until she needed them.
Walking out to the one Mitch had missed, she asked him to ‘find it’, and, after a good five minutes, when he just couldn’t seem to, she stepped up, pointed to the spot and called to him. “Is it here?” she asked. He came up, sniffed repeatedly, wagged his tail, then sat down, his eyes on her.
Jessie frowned. Why wasn’t he picking up on it?
Trotting over to her bag, she pulled out a trowel and went back to the spot. Digging down, she hit pay dirt and sa
w the problem—her error. In her fog of misery, she’d put the scent rag in the ground, but still inside its sealed bag. Of course he couldn’t smell it. “I’m so, so sorry, Mitch. My bad,” she said, bending down to give him a nose kiss.
He wagged and poked his nose between her knees, then bounded up to lick her chin. She was forgiven.
Walking back over to her starting spot, she called them to her, then asked them to pay attention. Pulling out a sealed bag from her pocket, she opened it and let both dogs take a sniff. Then, she asked them to sniff again. When they both had, she put it away, then used her sign for ‘one specific’, ‘human’, and ‘dead’ before again calling for the search.
Jessie was asking them to discriminate between all of the different dead remains she had buried and pick only the two spots that were identical scents to the scent in the bag.
Within a few minutes, both Mitch and Milo downed, and Jessie could have wept. Both of them nailed it. “Gute Hunde, ganz brave Hunde. Wundervoll!”
She ran out to them, hugging them, rubbing them, and, of course, offering their “mostest, favoritist” treat for her heartfelt thank you. “Such good dogs, such wonderful dogs, such great dogs,” she crooned, laughing with them as they jumped and bounded around in ‘happy dog’ joy, Milo’s bounces putting him up at eye level with her, Mitch’s almost that. They knew.
Jessie just wanted to shout it out to the world, but, of course, the world wasn’t watching. Just her. She had learned to successfully communicate with Mitch and Milo, and they had, in turn, learned her ‘rudimentary dog-speak-done-human-style’.
“I’m going to assume that something really good happened,” came her granddad’s call.
Startled, Jessie looked to the far side of the field, over near where the woods started. Milo and Mitch both instantly sat, their heads swiveling to stare at their audience. There, emerging from the woods on their horses with a pack of eight dogs around them were her dad and her granddad.