“Sure.”
“We just got word from county patrol that one of their officers is having a nervous breakdown. It appears that he pulled over a talking goat and his pet dog.”
Basil looked up at her, waiting for the punch line.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, here’s the deposition from the psychiatrist visit he had.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“Fax machine. It was between the report for the dancing monkeys and the verdict on the hippo drug trial.”
“Ha, ha, ha.”
The detective had been getting this treatment since the investigation had been handed to him this morning.
First the department received a report that a half-goat, half-man beast had tried to rob a moving company. Basil had reviewed the interrogation from each the of the kids working the counter, but their stories were all different. There was little late substantive information to go on.
It would have been easy to write off as a con artist in costume if not for the footage from the surveillance video. There was a remote possibility he couldn’t ignore: a were-goat.
It was not a popular theory.
During the years he had spent at the Canadian Bureau of Investigation, Basil had been the lead agent to follow up on many such tips or rumors of the beast, but much like Bigfoot, hardly anyone believed. Complaints of the mythical creature showed up from campers and the occasional drunkard or hobo. The CBI's investigations always led to these cases being filed in the trash. If not for the video footage being less grainy than the normal recordings of were-goats, this report would have gone in the same place.
Then came a second call. Local P.D. at a truck stop town had taken a call about a man in a goat suit accosting a cashier at a local fast food chain. The man had apparently robbed them of some food and over four hundred dollars in cash. The police found the stolen money in the cashier’s car not an hour later, one of his coworkers had ratted him out. But the goat-dressed man was nowhere to be found.
Just an hour ago, Basil was notified that a group of men had been arrested in connection with a cocaine operation. Their front was a goat milking facility. Before the police arrived, one vigilante had single-handedly taken out the criminals and released the animals. It was only after one of the men regained consciousness that they described their assailant as a crazed were-goat: the creature had come with one of their contacts who he refused to name, but he said the were-goat's name was Sparky.
Several sightings all correlated to the same shocking conclusion. Basil couldn't wait to rub his fellow agent’s faces in it.
The detective nodded as he accepted the facsimile. “Frita, is there any chance you can get me another cup of coffee?”
“Of course, no problem, Bahh-sil.”
The detective started over the report. The officer’s account was no more out of proportion than the others Basil had been going over. The descriptions were similar. Of course now there was specific mention of a dog. Did this were-goat have a pet?
“You need anything else?” Frita quickly returned and handed over the steaming mug.
“No, I’m fine,” he stood up as she walked out of the room. He watched as she emerged from his office making horns with her fingers. Then came an eruption of laughter from the agents outside.
Basil shook his head as he sipped at his cup. The agent trusted his gut about this, this time he would get his goat. He turned to the map on the wall. Starting in Saskatoon, then Plunkett, and now just east of Winnipeg. Where are you going?
There was another knock on his glass door. Basil waved in the visitor without turning to see them.
“Looks like you're just rolling in the hay today.” Tony chuckled.
“Can we leave the goat jokes out?”
“Sure, sure,” Tony dropped a new stack of papers on the desk.
“So we just got word from Saskatoon, they ran over the computer records at that moving place. Looks like the young girl was more helpful to our suspect than she let on.”
“What do you mean?”
“She violated company policy and printed someone else’s trip itinerary for him.”
“And?”
“And the rental she pulled was for a full sized rig, rented to a...” he looked down at the paperwork, “Reilly Thompson.”
“Great, where is this guy?”
“His trip planner puts him going to Montreal. He’s supposed to drop off the truck there, could be at any of the moving locations there though, over twenty-two in the city alone. Counting the surrounding areas, it’s looking more like fifty.”
“I want a man at each one. I want to find out what’s his connection to this whole mess right away.”
“Sure, we'll talk to the captain. But there’s more,” Tony straightened himself. “I ran his I.D. on the crime-net, totally clean. I figured that couldn’t be right, so I ran it through the main traffic records, and nothing.”
“So he’s clean all the way around?”
“No, there is no license in the system. It’s a fake.”
Basil rubbed at his chin again. The were-goat was headed to Montreal, following a man with a fake ID.
“When did he rent the truck?”
“Saturday.”
Visions of the were-goat creeping out of the wilderness were fading from him now. A crazier structure was coming into play. The goat could be the product of some wacko mad scientist, creating an army of evil mutants, after this Reilly character who held the key to defeating the were-goat. The detective shook his thoughts free. He would have to take it one credible detail at a time.
"And there is this, too." Tony slid a single white page over to Basil.
A missing property report. Basil read on. It was filed by Oliver Simms in regards to some eighty or so goats that had gone missing in the middle of the night. The report listed that Oliver believed that they ran away, due to depression, but the police had filed it as a possible theft. The report carried on, reminding the detective of his visits to his crazy aunt in the old folks home years back. They had logged details of eating habits, likes, dislikes of the goats. The man reported that all but one goat had run off and that he and his goat were sad.
“What are you thinking?” Tony asked.
“I should give this man a call." If the man was half as loony as the report, the call could be fruitless. Basil had bet his career on wild stories in the past, and none of those had paid off, but the detective was still a gambling man.
“Sure,” Tony stood at his desk, waiting as Basil picked up the phone.
“Yeah?”
Tony mouthed the words “thank you” to him.
“Yeah, thanks, yeah,” the phone was ringing in Basil's ear.
The line picked up. There was no hello. Basil was greeted only by sounds of sniffling and whimpering.
“Mr. Simms?” Basil waited a moment, but the man just kept sobbing. “Mr. Simms?”
“Yes, Goddamnit can’t a man morn?” The hostility of Oliver's response crackled over the phone.
“I’m Special Agent Lain. I was following up on the goats you reported stolen.”
“I didn’t report a damn word about stolen! I said they was missing, but the cops won’t help find missing goats, said had to report it as a theft! Ruthless bastards.”
“Can you tell me what happened?"
Oliver swallowed back his tears. The old man gave his perspective on the two day affair, starting with the displeasure in their demeanor, then gone. His story often interrupted by details of individual goats.
Basil jotted down what he could. Oliver finally finished after a straight five minutes.
"Do you have any idea where they would have gone?"
“Damned idiots, the lot of you! If I knew where they was, I wouldn't be missing them.” Oliver's tears and sadness shifting to vehement frustration.
"Is there anything else you can tell me about your goats?"
“God damn, you’re writing a book aren’t you? Exploiting my
pain!”
“No sir, I’m a detective, a special agent with the CBI-”
“Listen, Sherlock, I don’t care who you are, I told them all I know!”
“Look, Mr. Simms, I think I can help you find your goats.”
"I don't trust you any more than those damn other creeping cops up at the station."
"Well, I am sorry sir, I will let you know if I find anything out about you other missing goats."
"Ain't no other missing goats. They all are missing, jackass."
Basil rechecked the report. It wasn't completely clear. "Mr. Simms, this report says you were able to hold on to one. Did you not still have one goat?"
Oliver didn't respond.
"Are you still there?"
"Now who is this? What are you calling about?" The old man's confusion was thick with innocence. Basil presumed some kind of dementia was at work.
"You had reported all of your goats missing, you said you still had one left?"
"I don't," Oliver sniffled. "He left me, too. I tried to make him stay."
“Did you ever have a name for any of your goats?”
“Of course that son of a bitch had a name, you think I’m just some heartless old fart with a collection of unnamed goats?”
“What was this last goat’s name?”
Oliver was silent. The detective could hear breathing on the other end of the line accompanied by a muffled scratching sound.
“Mr. Simms?”
“God damn, his name was Sparky! Now stop harassing me!”
The connection dropped. Basil hung up the phone. His mind stirring together the details of each report. It made even less sense now, but it was terribly intriguing.
Chapter 40
“I think you might have better luck without the mask, that’s a pretty scary looking face,” Frank shivered.
The dark stringy wig the clerk had sold him on made it even worse. The only improvement was the new hat he had gotten to replace the torn up straw number.
“I think I look pretty snappy,” the goat viewed his plastic visage in the rear view mirror. The face appeared to him a decent enough replica. Sparky squinched in his chair, the deep biting attacks of the infesting flea army were getting worse by the minute.
“It could go either way. Who are you supposed to be again?”
“The soda king, Michael Jenkins?”
“Never heard of him, you should have taken Elvis.”
“Do I look human?”
The dog examined him again.
“Sure.”
“What’s that other stuff you had me get?”
Sparky leaned over to peak in the bag. Frank had tossed it at him on the way out and insisted it be purchased, but Sparky hadn’t got a good look.
Frank pulled a pile of fabric from the bag. Sparky couldn’t discern its value immediately. Frank turned toward the door and pulled the cloth over his head. Sparky watched as the pink dress covered the dog, all the way down over his feet. Frank slipped on some pink slippers and adjusted the suit on his head.
Frank turned back toward him. Sticking out on his snout was a baby mask complete with rosy cheeks and a bright smile. It stuck out on the dog’s snout.
“Mama,” Frank said in his most childish tone.
“No way! One of us in costume is bad enough, and you honestly look like a dog with a mask. No one will buy it.”
“The problem with you, goat, is you still think people are smart. People are stupid. You know how long I have been running games on humans?”
“I, I dont?”
“Years. That’s right, years. No one will think twice. I don’t want to sit in the car while you shop. I want to go in.”
“Frank, it’s been a pleasure to have you along. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but your idea stinks.”
“So does yours!”
“You’re not coming in Frank. Look at yourself in the mirror at least.”
Frank turned to the side mirror and caught his face. The angle stretched his face even more out of proportion. He tilted his head this way and that trying to find one that was acceptable, but everywhere he turned there was fur.
“Let me come, please?”
“Super-Mart,” Sparky read the bright blue sign. “One stop shopping,” his hook slid the wheel right and the truck puttered the highway off ramp.
“No Frank, for the last time, your costume stinks.”
“I don’t care! If you’re my friend you’ll let me come anyway!”
Sparky pulled the truck into the lot, people everywhere strolling casually about. He tossed the truck into park and reached for the handle. Frank rushed to the door.
“Frank.”
“Beer?”
“What?”
“Get me a beer and I’ll stay.”
“No beer.”
“No beer, no deal.”
Sparky caught a woman pushing a cart in the rear view mirror with a large child in the seat. Sparky imagined Frank bouncing and panting behind the mask in sitting in the top of a cart.
“Okay, beer.”
The stop at the costume shop hadn’t been cheap. The budget was reduced to just over two hundred bucks including what had been spent on gas and food. He didn’t really know how much it would take to make the trip, and wouldn’t until he had the map.
Sparky slid out of the car. He made his best attempt to keep a low profile, but the goat was more nervous than any time before. He approached the doors to the store and they slid sideways automatically. It was a marvel he had yet to see. The goat smiled at the automation; his mask didn’t move with the gesture.
Once inside, he gazed in awe of the high ceilings and massive inventory. The store may have been larger than the whole city of Asquith. They needed the space Sparky thought as they sold, as advertised, everything. A lady pulled out a cart for him as he entered. With his eyes still wrapped up in visual splendor, he walked into the metal basket jarring to a halt.
“Oh, I’m sorry sir, welcome to Super-Mart!”
Seeing the other patrons walking with their carts he looked down to the white gloves on his hands. Even though he had stuffed the fingers they still looked fake. Sparky bravely put his covered hooves on the basket and walked on. For a moment Sparky questioned that he might have been better off with the hook hand the hippie at the store had tried to sell him.
Sparky quickly moved from the front entry, but quickly discovered there was nowhere he could go without being surrounded. Around every corner was another man, woman, or family pushing their own cart through the store. Children were screaming, parents were screaming.
Fortunately no one was truly paying any attention to anyone else.
Sparky revisited the list of things he needed in his mind: coffee, a map, snacks, and beer. He listed the items again and knew he was forgetting something. It was important. He ripped at his skin through the overcoat, with one of his stuffed hands. “Damned fleas,” he spoke aloud, not seeing the young couple behind him in the aisle.
“Excuse me?” the man asked.
“What?" Sparky hesitated, not looking over his shoulder.
“Fleas?” The man behind him questioned.
“Yeah, fleas, horrible little monsters.” Sparky scratched himself and moved on. Flea killer became the first item on his agenda. The goat pushed his cart on through the maze of aisles.
All of the flea related products Super-Mart carried were approved for use on domestic household pets. There were at least a hundred of them, each one promising the best results. The packaging for each one spent more than time warning of the dangers of use than describing benefits. Misuse could suffer penalties as high as death. After checking through each one carefully, Sparky had found that not one listed themselves as safe or effective on goats and he couldn't risk it. The concern grew that he would never be rid of the terrible beasts. The plastic mask squeaked between the goat’s lip and teeth. Sparky realized he was chewing on his disguise.
A young lady with a blue
vest appeared from around the corner. She wore thick glasses and a bright smile driving at full speed toward him.
“Can I help you find anything?”
Her nametag read: Joon, Super-Dooper Excellent Service Person. Sparky released the plastic from his mouth, worried it may be torn.
“I need flea killer, something safe on goats. None of these list anything about how they work on animals other than dogs and cats.”
“Oh, well have you looked at this one?” She pulled down a box from the shelf, Deathspray. He had already read the box thoroughly and nowhere had it indicated its safety with goats.
“I checked that.”
“Oh, well,” she placed the box back and grabbed the next product in line. “This one is our number one seller.”
“But it doesn’t say it’s safe on goats, I need one that is safe on my goat. He’s very important to me and the fleas are eating him alive.”
“Oh, well,” she put up the box. She looked over the products carefully and grabbed a white spray bottle. “This one is totally organic! It’s great for houses with children.”
“Maybe you don’t understand my dilemma. As we speak, my goat is being gnawed by fleas, and in some very sensitive areas I might add. I can’t chance that what kills the fleas today will kill him in a week.”
Joon looked at him with a new level of concern and puckered her cheeks thoughtfully. “So he’s a goat?”
Sparky frowned.
“You know, I don’t know which one of these would work best, but if it’s safe on a dog, I bet its safe on a goat.”
“Are you sure? I would be upset if my goat died.”
“Well yes, I’m pretty sure. Would you like me to recommend one that is popular, or maybe an organic option?”
“No, thank you for nothing. Please let me figure it out alone.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes, could you go find me a flea killer that’s safe on goats?”
“I’ll go ask my manager!”
She spun around on one foot and vanished around a corner. Sparky looked down the aisle where an older woman was searching through various bags of cat food. She was counting off numbers to herself aloud.
“Nine ninety- nine, eight fifty-nine, seven eighty-four, aha,” she said pulling a bag free. “Six seventy-nine!” She looked to the masked goat, surprised that he had been watching her. “If it’s the cheapest, it’s the best!”
Sparky at once noticed then the array of prices underneath the flea killers, carefully auditing each one.
“Four ninety-nine!” he shouted, tossing a handful of boxes in the cart.