Hair of the Dog (4 page)

Dixie picked up the phone. A couple calls and a young woman knocked at the door. Dixie introduced her as Melody Paget, a track trainer. “I'm leaving you in really good hands. Mel is one of our best. Stop by on your way out—the list will be ready.”

***

“It's a real mess out here.” Melody was picking her way around piles of debris stacked outside the door to the building that housed the office, kennels, and several prep rooms. The acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air. Dan did a quick inventory—an overstuffed couch with two matching chairs water-soaked and barely recognizable, a charred heavy wooden desk and metal chair, a couple file cabinets, and a metal frame half melted that could have been from a cot, Dan thought. Not a lot.

“Is this everything from the office?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Firemen gave orders for it to be dragged outside—didn't want any flare-ups.”

“Why don't we go see what's left inside?” Dan couldn't see anything that needed his attention out here.

“Don't get your hopes up. It's just a charred, soggy mess.”

And she wasn't kidding. The building was cement block so this wing was still standing, but that was about all. Window casings had melted away, doors had disappeared, a large molten lump just inside the door had probably been a file cabinet. A couple of slender twisted pieces of metal resting against the wall suggested a picture frame. Must have been something poster-sized. He stepped into the room.

Dan's shoes squished as he walked and after taking about a half dozen steps forward, there didn't seem to be any point in going further. It must have been a hot fire which right up front suggested arson. He dragged out his trusty Nikon and snapped pictures—floor, ceiling, windows or lack thereof, doorway leading to the hall—this was more perfunctory than noticing something suspect. Soot, water stains, and charred wood supports obscured possible clues. It looked like arson and everyone supposed it was, but he made a mental note to check with the Volusia County FD and walked back through the door.

He paused in the hallway to record his notes. A dictaphone app…who could have guessed at how quickly technology would progress. But he wasn't complaining, the saved time was a boon. He turned slowly, pausing at each potential point of interest, and voiced his comments watching them miraculously pop up in print. Would he be giving away his age if he admitted to how impressed he always was by this technology? Yeah, probably.

“Ready to take a look at the kennels?” Melody had been standing quietly beside the doorway.

“Sure.” He slipped the mini iPad into his briefcase and started to follow. “What the…?” He'd obviously stepped on something. He leaned against an outer wall, slipped off his right loafer and checked the crepe sole. Wedged into the rubbery grooves on the base of the shoe was a small die—the number 9.

“Any idea what this is?” He held out the blackened number in the palm of his hand.

“Part of an old tattoo kit. All racing greyhounds have tattoos.”

Dan tried to get his mind around every dog having a heart on its chest with maybe MOM or a flag in the middle. “I don't think I'm following you.”

“Oh, sorry, every dog has an identifying tattoo—one in each ear. In the right ear is the NGA registration number. That's National Greyhound Association. In the left you'll find a combination of letters and numbers. The first is a digit depicting month of birth, second digit is the year, and the third die is a letter which tells you what litter order the dog was tattooed in.”

“Give me an example.”

“Well, the five numbers in the right ear are self-explanatory. It's the left ear that gets tricky. If you have an 119B, the dog was born in November of 2009 and was the second dog in the litter to be tattooed. There will never be more than three numbers and a single letter in the left ear. Try this one: 88C.”

“August of 2008 and the third dog in a particular litter to be tattooed.”

“Perfect.”

“Would tattoo kits have been kept in the office?”

“Not really. I don't know why any would even be at the track. The kennel owners tattoo their dogs long before we see them here. All a part of puppy preparedness. And the tattoos are usually done with a pretty sophisticated kit—or a pen nowadays if you have the money. That's the old-fashioned way.” She pointed to the number 9 in his palm then bent forward for a better look. “Boy, this is from a really old set. It's some sort of pot metal, not even cast aluminum.”

Dan turned the relic over. It appeared to be made of lead. He knew Melody was right; he doubted that this material was used anymore. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.

“Guess the kennel is next?” He fell in beside Melody and noted that the closer they got to the kennel area, the fewer the signs of a fire. Walls were still coated with a scummy gray over yellow utility paint, but other than evidence of water damage along the floor—ceramic tiles were broken and popping up—the kennel area had missed the brunt of a very hot fire.

“Where would the five dogs have been crated?”

“Right here by the door.”

Dan stepped into the room and looked at row after row of large crates. Three deep, they covered every wall. And they weren't small but long enough and tall enough to allow even the biggest greyhound to move around comfortably.

“Where is this turn-out area—the place where most of the dogs were found?”

“Right across the hall. Fucher did an heroic job of corralling forty-five dogs and getting them to safety.”

“Weren't some found in the hallway?”

“Only three.”

“Any idea why they were separated from the rest?”

“Probably the last to leave their crates. One, I know for sure, was housed on the back wall—a young dog who may have been at the track only a couple times before. He would have been disoriented. I don't know about the others.”

That made sense. Dan made a couple of notes. “I'm still not sure I understand how five dogs were lost.”

“You're not alone.” Melody's voice dropped to a whisper. “They were the closest to the smoke and Fucher says they just disappeared—he kept saying that he looked for them and they just weren't there. I think he was busy with all the others and he lost track of them. But why they'd head toward the fire and not away from it…well, goes without saying, that's a puzzle.”

“What with the fire and the noise and the utter panic…it would be easy to become disoriented—even for a dog, don't you think?”

“Maybe, but their instincts are stronger than humans'—danger signs are built into their DNA. But it makes Fucher sound guilty. Like he didn't do enough—even with forty-five saved.”

“Do you know how the dogs died?”

“Smoke inhalation, I think. They were only inches from safety, frantically trying to get out the side door.”

Dan made a note to see if the track vet corroborated the story. “I guess I'm wondering why all five stayed together, didn't split up, follow the other dogs across the hall to safety.”

“They were raised together, housed together—one of the dogs was a pretty dominant male—they probably just followed the wrong leader.”

Dan stepped across the hall and opened the doors to the exercise area. The doors were in pretty good shape, some rubber insulation crinkled from heat but otherwise intact. The area was about four hundred square feet in size. He tried to imagine forty-five dogs in the space. Probably every one reacting to the smoke and fire—jumping around, howling, picking fights…how could anyone stay calm in that situation? He had new respect for Fucher.

“Anything else I should see?”

“I was going to point out the exits. The chain-link gate there leads to the track and that one,” she pointed to her right, “goes to another closed-in area that extends to the maintenance barn.”

“Maintenance for the track or grounds in general?”

“Mostly the track. It's pretty labor-intensive—it's dragged before every race. It's sand so it needs to be smoothed and leveled. Eight dogs per race means thirty-two paws digging into the surface. It gets torn up quickly.”

“Anything else in the barn?”

“Only the usual lawn equipment—riding mowers, that sort of thing. And that's Fred's domain. You might want to get a hold of him for a tour. He doesn't like just anybody poking around.”

Dan didn't think he needed to see the barn. Couldn't think of a good reason anyway. Maybe another day. He made a note of Fred's name. As usual, this was a puzzle. A challenged young man sitting in jail possibly without a good reason as to why; five urns on a desk; a hefty insurance payout; and, oh yes, lest he forget, a dead body.

“Do you have time to talk with the track vet? He asked me to bring you by.”

Dan jerked back to the present. The vet was on his list, “Sure, now's a good time.”

Melody led him down an east hallway and left him at the door to Kevin Elliot's office. A quick knock got him inside the immaculate office/lab/treatment room. Absolutely spotless and without any damage from the fire. The man behind the desk was probably his age, early fifties, salt and pepper hair, receding hairline, but crisply decked out in a freshly starched, white lab coat over faded jeans.

Kevin Elliott motioned him in. “Have a seat. I'd like to help in any way that I can.”

Dan settled into a chair opposite the vet and took out the iPad. “I appreciate the time. I'd like to clear up a few things for starters.”

“Fire away.”

“Were you the first on the scene? That is, after Fucher Crumm and Jackson Sanchez.”

“Yes, I was on my way into the office that morning. About five. Working early in the day is about the only time I can get paperwork done. It gets pretty crazy during race time. I'm more or less 24/7 around here and I'd just finished inoculating about thirty dogs for kennel cough—didn't get out of here until around eight in the evening. I decided to go home, get something to eat and a little rest before finishing up the files.”

“Maintenance crew wasn't in yet?”

“Their day usually starts around six or six-thirty.”

“Did you call in the fire?”

“Yeah. I thought I saw smoke from over this way coming down Williamson Boulevard. I called it in the minute I turned into the back lot. Flames were through the roof by then. Volusia FD got here in under ten minutes.”

“But by that time you'd already found the five dogs that had died?”

“They were stacked up against the side door. It took a little muscle to just get the door open a couple inches—ended up breaking a window and crawling in. That's when I found them. I bagged up each of them and carried them out to my truck.”

“About how long had they been dead?”

“Not long. Maybe only a matter of minutes. The fire was hot—blistering the paint on the walls in that end of the corridor. And any escape had been cut off—the fire closed in behind them. If I'd only been ten minutes earlier…These were dogs I'd cared for since they were whelped.” Kevin reached across the desk for a couple Kleenex and blew his nose. “They weren't pretty to look at.”

“I can understand. I'm a dog owner and it would be very difficult to lose my pet under these circumstances. When was Ms. Halifax alerted to the severity of the situation?”

“I'm afraid not until somewhat later when I was on my way to the crematorium. By the time I had the bodies in the truck, the fire department was here and things went from barely controlled craziness to all-out chaos.”

“Did you check on the other dogs at this time?”

“I made sure they were safe, of course. Fucher did a hell of a job keeping forty-five dogs out of harm's way.”

“If he was able to save forty-five, how could five have been lost?”

“I wonder the same thing. I would have expected the five to follow the others—go out the double doors across the hall. They were probably disoriented because they were released from their crates first. To be honest? I would not have expected them to go toward the fire—back into the building. That goes against natural instinct.”

“Melody was saying the same thing. Do you think they had help?”

“Enticed to go against their instincts? That's interesting. But who?”

“I think we can assume Fucher already had his hands full. Jackson Sanchez was on the premises.”

“Assuming he was alive.”

“Has there been a time of death established?” Dan didn't remember any mention of one.

“Well, actually I have no idea. I'm sure an autopsy's been done. But then you'd have to come up with a reason for Jackson to even be here.”

“It was unusual for him to be at the kennels at this hour of the morning?”

“Let's just say not the usual. If there was something that could be handled by an assistant, Jackson would be long gone. I think it's fair to say he wasn't very hands-on.”

“Sounds like you might not have been too surprised by his death?”

“Hey, don't go putting words in my mouth. Jackson was an okay guy—liked the bottle a little too much and would go running off at the mouth when he shouldn't, but, you know, he was a fixture around here. I don't think anyone took him too seriously. I certainly never thought he had any enemies.”

“You didn't hear that he'd threatened to fire Fucher?”

“Oh, that was a heat of the moment sort of thing—Jackson came close to losing a dog and he looked for someone to blame.”

“Did he set things straight with Fucher? Apologize, maybe?”

“Not that I know of. Doesn't sound like Jackson—he didn't make many mistakes, if you know what I mean.”

He didn't sound like a guy without enemies, Dan thought. “Oh, before I forget, when were the dogs cremated?”

“The night they died. I didn't see a reason to even take them out of the truck. As I said, I gave Dixie a call and got the go ahead. I use the facilities here in Daytona—out on Bellevue. I drove out there that morning and she met me. I have a folder of paperwork here somewhere.” Dan waited as Kevin opened a couple of drawers before putting a manila envelope on the desk. “This has everything you'll need—dates, causes of death, cremation certificates.”