I Shall Not Want

  “What?”

  “Our dog, Buster.”

  And from somewhere inside him he found a calm he didn’t know he had. He stood to his feet. “I am not this man,” he said, slowly and emphatically to Percy. “Not today, not ever. I am Detective Mark Walters and this is another crime scene related to my ongoing investigation. You do whatever you have to do, but I’ll thank you to stay out of my team’s way.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re too close.”

  “You’re absolutely right I’m too close. I’m too close to catching this killer, and I’m not going to let this stop me. I catch the killer; I find my wife. Now, you can either be part of the solution or part of the problem. There’s a lot we could do working together. But if you want to report me, feel free to do so. Meanwhile I’m going to do my job.”

  He turned on his heel. Forensics had moved in and was sweeping the place. They wouldn’t find much, if the other crime scenes were any indicators. Then again, the guy had had to hurry with this one, so there was always a chance. Best to get out of their way and let them do what they did best while he did what he did best.

  “Come on, Paul, I have a hunch,” Mark said, heading for the front door. He had Buster to thank for that.

  After Jeremiah got home, he fell asleep in front of the television, something he almost never did. When he awoke, night had fallen. He turned off the television and stood up, ready to head off to bed. He coughed hard enough that he nearly fell over.

  He finally stopped and in the silence that ensued he heard something, a high-pitched whining sound. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from outside. He pulled back the curtains on the front window just an inch so he could see outside.

  Across the lawn, in the same spot that he had found the body, was another dark lump. This one moved slightly, and he realized whatever it was, it was very much alive.

  He grabbed the butcher knife from the kitchen, secured it in the back of his waistband, and walked onto the porch. He walked quietly across the lawn, straining to see what it was that was moving in the corner. When he had closed the distance by half, he finally recognized it as a dog.

  He held out his hand and whistled low, wondering if the animal was hurt and knowing better than to approach too close if he was.

  The animal whined again and then stood up slowly and took a step toward him, then stopped.

  It was the German shepherd he had seen in the park. Somehow the dog had managed to follow the trail left by its dead master and was lying in the spot where the man had died.

  Jeremiah squatted down and said softly, “He’s not there anymore, boy. I’m sorry. Come here, though, and I can get you some food and we can figure out what to do together.”

  Slowly, one step at a time, the dog came to him. Jeremiah scratched behind his ears before carefully standing up and taking a step toward the house, patting his leg so the dog would follow him. The dog began to move, flinching occasionally, and Jeremiah could tell he was in pain. He wondered what the extent of his injuries were.

  They made it on to the porch, and Jeremiah opened the door into the house. The dog whimpered and then turned to look over his shoulder, clearly trying to decide what to do.

  Jeremiah stood for a moment before walking inside. “Come on in, boy. I have turkey.”

  The dog turned back and walked inside. Jeremiah closed the door behind him and moved toward the kitchen. The dog didn’t follow but instead stood rigid by the door. He began to scratch at it.

  Jeremiah pulled one of the plates of leftovers out of the refrigerator and put some of the turkey meat on a smaller plate. He set it on the floor in full view of the dog.

  The dog’s nose twitched once, twice, and then he limped over to the plate and began to wolf down the turkey.

  In the light of the kitchen Jeremiah was able to look him over. The dog was filthy, and dried blood covered both front feet, as if he had torn them up scratching his way through something.

  Jeremiah got a bowl of water and set it down on the floor, as well. The dog turned, saw it, and then drank half the bowl before returning to his food.

  “Just as thirsty as you are hungry, huh, boy? So what exactly happened to you out there? Your master, was he killed because of something he was involved in or because someone wanted to get to you?”

  When the dog had finished the turkey, he turned again to the water, draining the bowl. Jeremiah refilled it, and the dog had one more quick drink before lying down on the kitchen floor with a weary groan.

  Jeremiah took silent stock of the dog as he tried to decide what to do. A hacking cough racked his body, a painful reminder that he had been on his way to bed before discovering the animal.

  He should call the police, feign ignorance again, and let them figure out where the dog had been and why he had tracked down his former owner a couple days later. They’d be able to get the dog the medical attention he needed and check him thoroughly for any evidence.

  That was what worried him. If the murder wasn’t connected, then the last thing Jeremiah wanted was the police figuring that out and asking a bunch of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

  No, he had to examine the dog himself first. He coughed again, so hard he had to lean against the counter for support. He was clearly in no shape to do it at the moment, though.

  He didn’t want to go to bed, though, until he had at least figured out if the dog was injured and needed his paws bandaged.

  He filled a large pan with lukewarm water, grabbed a couple of dish towels, and sat down gingerly on the floor next to the dog.

  He looked the dog in the eyes. “I’m not trying to hurt you; I only want to help. I realize that I don’t know you and you don’t know me, but you need to trust me.”

  He picked up the dog’s left front paw. The dog winced but didn’t growl. Carefully, Jeremiah lowered it into the bowl of water and held it there, letting the water loosen the dirt and blood that were matted onto it.

  After a minute the dog relaxed slightly and then sneezed on him.

  “Well, aren’t we a pair? It looks like we’re both sick as dogs,” Jeremiah said with a smile.

  He forced himself to be calm while he worked, to not feel fear or anger or any of the other negative emotions that had been plaguing him. Animals could sense emotions and would respond accordingly. So he worked hard to transmit a feeling of peace to the dog next to him. After a minute the dog began to close his eyes, and his head dropped to the floor.

  “It’s okay,” Jeremiah soothed. “I think you need the sleep even more than I do.”

  After about ten minutes he was able to remove most of the dirt and blood from the paw. He took it out of the water and looked closely. There were scabs on the pads of his foot that seemed to be healing over.

  After getting fresh water in the pan, Jeremiah repeated the process with the other front foot. When he finally examined that one, he discovered a bit of glass wedged in between two of the dog’s toes. He got some tweezers and peroxide and carefully removed and sterilized the injured area.

  The dog yelped once and started to lurch to his feet, but Jeremiah was ready for the movement and pressed him steadily back to the floor. Once the glass had been removed, the dog relaxed again.

  Satisfied that he had done what he could for him until morning, Jeremiah turned out the lights and headed for bed.

  He had been lying down for five minutes when he heard the dog walk into his room whimpering.

  “What is it?” Jeremiah asked groggily.

  The dog jumped up onto the bed and lay down next to Jeremiah’s feet and within a minute was snoring softly.

  With a frustrated sigh Cindy finally had to admit that “soon enough” was shaping up to be “tomorrow.” Every store she drove by seemed to have closed early for the holiday. The one drugstore that was open didn’t carry any Old Spice products at all.

  So much for avoiding the stores on Black Friday, she thought grimly as she pulled up outside her house.

 
Clarice and Buff were thrilled to see her, and she took them both for a quick walk in the front yard. Once back inside, she had no sooner unclipped the leashes than the phone rang.

  “Hello?” she asked as she picked up her cordless.

  “Hi Cindy, it’s Guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “Uh, Guy Randall from speed dating?”

  “Oh, I am so sorry!”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “A little bit, sorry.”

  “I can call back.”

  “No, now is fine,” Cindy said, forcing herself to take a deep breath and sit down on the couch. Clarice jumped up beside her, and she petted the dog absentmindedly.

  “I know I wasn’t supposed to call until Sunday, but I just wanted to wish you Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” she replied automatically. “How’s your family?”

  “Well, thank you. How is yours?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Good.” He paused and then continued, “Is there anything wrong?”

  “One of my friends just got arrested for murder. I’m sure he’s innocent, but the police came to arrest him at my house during dinner.”

  “Ouch! I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Are you serious?” she burst out.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Well, for one, you’re out of state, and for another, you don’t even know me.”

  “But I want to.”

  She blushed. “That’s sweet.”

  “I’ll take sweet. At least you didn’t call me nice.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the kiss of death from a girl. Whenever a girl tells a guy he’s nice, that means she won’t go out with him.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Really? Can you think of the last guy you called nice?”

  Joseph. “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you want to go out with him?”

  “No.”

  “There you are.”

  Clarice shifted slightly, and Cindy’s fingers ran over the back of her neck. Amidst the soft fur there was the sensation of smoothness, and Cindy stopped and looked down, parting the dog’s thick fur with her fingers.

  There on the back of Clarice’s neck was a tiny shaved spot.

  “Oh, my gosh,” Cindy breathed as she stared at the shaved spot on the back of Clarice’s neck. “Guy, I’ve got to go. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure.”

  She examined the dog more carefully. Clarice had the same sort of shaved spot that the other dogs did. It made no sense, though. Joseph would have had Clarice chipped when she was younger. There was no reason she should have a shaved mark too.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  The dog just looked at her with dark, mournful eyes. Buff had discovered a catalog and was happily shredding it in a corner, not at all the frightened puppy of a couple hours earlier.

  “What scared you, Buff?”

  He glanced up briefly then went back to shredding the glossy pages. She knew she should stop him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  Why would someone be sticking a needle in Clarice? And who could have done it? It was possible that the person who had broken into Joseph’s house whom she had bitten could have done it. The only other time the dog had really been vulnerable that she could think of was when the police had taken her into custody to check the DNA evidence from the blood on her.

  And what about Buff? Who or what had scared him so badly when the police came to arrest Joseph? He had already met Mark the day she found him. She couldn’t see where Paul would have been any more threatening.

  It was the uniforms, she realized. Buff had been terrified of one or all of the uniformed officers. Had he seen or smelled one of them before? Or had he a reason to be afraid of the uniform?

  She began to shake as the truth dawned on her. A policeman was involved.

  16

  MARK CALLED IN AND ASKED FOR THE HOME ADDRESS OF JUNE, THE DIRECtor of the animal shelter.

  “They’ll have it for us in five minutes,” he said as he hung up.

  He considered hurling his phone out the window or smashing it against the dashboard, but stopped himself since he needed it to receive the call back. Plus, Traci had the number. She might manage to get free just for a second or two and call.

  Mark flipped the phone open and checked the battery. He had full bars still.

  Paul swerved the car into a parking spot in front of a 7-11. “I need coffee and something to eat. So do you.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Another officer Lou, who had been at the scene, pulled up. He glanced at Paul and Mark with an apologetic grimace. Paul and he walked inside together, and Mark tried not to scream at the delay. He sat, staring at his cell, willing it to ring.

  Finally Paul and Lou exited, and Mark could hear the tail end of their conversation.

  “If it was about the dog, why didn’t they kill Traci like everyone else?” he heard Lou ask.

  “Could it be the guy doesn’t want to cross the line by killing a cop’s wife?” Paul asked.

  “Why not just knock her out if he didn’t want to kill her?” Lou countered. “Why kidnap her?”

  “Maybe because she could identify him?” Paul said as he opened his car door.

  “It was a cop,” Mark said.

  “What?” Paul and Lou asked in unison.

  “A cop is behind all of this,” Mark repeated, turning to look at his partner, who looked as stricken as he felt.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “This guy has killed too many people, both homeless and not. The only way he cares about kidnapping her instead of killing her is if he needs a hostage or he feels too guilty to kill her.”

  “Just because she’s a cop’s wife?”

  “No,” Mark said, as the full horror of it dawned on him. “No, because she’s a cop’s wife and because he knows her.”

  His cell rang, making him jump. He flipped it open as he reached for his pen. He jotted down the address the woman on the other end gave him and then hung up. “Let’s go, I’ve got the address.”

  Paul slid into the driver’s seat, carefully stowing the coffees in his hands in the twin cup holders. He stuffed a couple of high protein energy bars and a bag of gummi bears into the glove compartment and then tossed a hot dog at Mark as he put the car in reverse.

  Even though the thought of food was making him a bit sick, Mark forced himself to down the hot dog. He would need to keep up his energy until this was over.

  It only took them a few minutes to find the address they were looking for. As it turned out, Mark and Paul interrupted the director of the animal shelter during her holiday festivities. She came out on the porch, closing the door behind her as the evening seemed to still be in full swing. Through an open window somewhere Mark could hear the sounds of a game being played.

  He winced, realizing he hadn’t called his sister-in-law and that she would be wondering where they were. He almost didn’t want to call her with the news that he had, but he knew he had to.

  “What is it?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself, and staring intently into their faces.

  “We need to ask you a few more questions,” Paul said.

  “Now?” she blinked in surprise.

  “Crime never sleeps and neither do we,” Paul said grimly.

  “Okay. Are these questions about the murder or about the break-in?” she asked.

  Paul and Mark exchanged a surprised glance. “What break-in?” Mark asked quietly.

  She looked surprised. “The one Sunday night. When I showed up for work Monday morning, the place had been broken into. The cat rooms had been opened and a couple of the dog pens too. It was a mess; fur and feces everywhere. The dogs were chasing the cats, and the cats were hiding everywhere they could. It took us hours to round everyone up and get them back
where they belonged. Thank goodness there were only minor injuries. We called the police right away and filled out a whole report.”

  Mark felt a chill and couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t heard about it because the officers working that unit hadn’t thought or realized they needed to alert homicide of a possible connection or if the officers who had taken her statement had conveniently lost the report.

  “Did you get the names of the officers who responded to the call?” Paul asked.

  She shook her head. “I was too upset to pay attention.”

  “Can you describe them for us?” Mark asked.

  “One was tall, good-looking, wore a hat pulled down over his eyes, and the other was shorter and kind of fidgety.”

  As Paul scribbled down the descriptions on his notepad, Mark fought to control his temper.

  “Anything more than that? Hair color, eye color? Light skin, dark skin? Could you sketch them?”

  She shook her head. “I’m terribly sorry, no. I can remember every dog that’s come through our shelter, but I have a terrible memory for people’s faces. But why would that be important? It can’t be that difficult to figure out who came out that morning.”

  It could be if they were trying to hide their tracks, Mark thought. Still, there was a chance someone at dispatch would know who it was who had taken the call.

  “Was there anything taken?” Paul asked.

  “Nothing physical, but I’m fairly certain information was stolen. The main computer was on and it had been hacked into. Not that that’s too hard to do, though. We are pretty sloppy about passwords and the like. I’ve since implemented new safety precautions.”

  “What information?” Mark asked.

  “Names and addresses of everyone that adopted a dog involved with the Animals to the Rescue program.”

  Mark felt the world tilt sideways. “Including the non-homeless who ended up adopting one of the extra dogs, like me?”

  “Yes, Detective.”

  That was how he knew about the rich woman who was killed, and about Mark and Traci having a dog.

  “I’m just so grateful we didn’t store any financial information for the non-homeless who paid the regular adoption fee. Could you imagine the consequences? My sister had her identity stolen last year, and she’s still trying to straighten it out.”