Hair of the Dog (5 page)

Dan stood. “I won't keep you any longer. Thanks for this.” He reached down and picked up the envelope. One more interview and he'd call it a day.

***

Because this was a “business” meeting, he'd called ahead to the county jail to state time and intent of his visit and to give the facility the opportunity to check his credentials. He also stated that he'd have a recorder. He doubted he'd use it but that depended upon Fucher. The visit was basically a trust-building one. County jails were usually more relaxed about rules—more relaxed than a state pen—but there was still protocol. They were used as a holding facility only, with long-term incarceration coming after a trial, when a move to permanent housing was made. Dan liked dealing with county facilities. If the jail followed normal procedures, Fucher would already be out of his cell and waiting on him.

And Dan wasn't disappointed. Fucher was much calmer today, Dan noted. He had been put in a small conference room with one ankle shackled to the chair he was sitting in and someone had given him a soda.

“Where's Sadie?”

“She's waiting in the car. I'll walk her after we're finished and you can see her.” Thank God the end of October meant cooler weather. He'd found some shade and with a bowl of water and every window opened four inches, she would be fine. He didn't expect this to take long. He reminded himself to watch for signs of stress—he didn't want any answers skewed. He'd decided to take notes and not use a recorder. The less obtrusive, the better.

“You want a Coke?” Fucher pushed the red can his way.

“No, but thanks anyway.”

“Can I see Sadie now?”

“I've got some questions I need to ask you first.”

“Okay.” Fucher sat forward elbows on the table. “Questions about Sadie?”

“These are questions about the fire.”

“I answered lots of questions already.”

“I'm sure you've had to.” Dan sat down across from Fucher and opened his briefcase taking out the iPad. “Here are some pictures I took today of the office area. Can you show me where you slept?”

“In the corner on a cot. It's not there now.”

“No, it burned in the fire. Was Sadie in the office with you?”

“Yeah. She slept on the cot, too.”

A little crowded, Dan thought. “When you woke up that night, Sadie was gone?”

Vigorous nodding, “I called and called and then went out to find her.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Maybe ten. There used to be a TV there but somebody took it home. So I don't know for sure.”

“Did you wake up before you noticed the fire? I mean like to go to the bathroom or maybe if you heard something?” Leading the witness, Dan admonished himself, but it didn't seem to lead anywhere as he noted Fucher shaking his head.

“I just woke up when the fire made the office all orange. And the smoke, that was bad. I ran out the door but that's when I fell over Jackson.”

“Jackson Sanchez? A kennel owner at the track.”

“Yeah.”

“Where was Jackson?”

“Right there.” Fucher pulled the screen closer and pointed to the doorway of the office. “There was a puddle of blood all over here”—again his index finger swept the doorway area—“and I stepped right in it. He was in the middle.”

“What did you do when you found him?”

“He was on his stomach with a big knife handle sticking straight up right in the middle of his back. Well, I pulled the knife out. That's the first thing.” And left a good set of prints for the police, Dan was certain.

“Can you show me where the knife was?” Dan walked around to the other side of the table, stopped by Fucher and turned around. “Touch my back where the knife was sticking out.”

Fucher stood and poked his finger to the right of Dan's spine directly between his shoulder blades and sat down. “Right there.”

“Thank you, Fucher.” Dan walked back around the table to his chair. It wouldn't have taken more than a man of average height, Dan noted. “Can you describe the knife?”

“My momma would have called it a butcher knife.”

“You mean a kitchen knife of some sort?”

“Yeah, like for cutting up a chicken.”

Dan paused. Butcher knife? That didn't exactly scream “premeditation.” More like grab what's handy—a spur-of-the-moment, in the heat of anger sort of thing.

“Is there a kitchen close to the office?”

“Right next door.” Fucher pointed to the left of the now non-existent office. Convenient. Made spur-of-the-moment even more likely. And it did make Fucher look guilty. Someone had to know where to find a knife.

“Do you remember what you did after you took the knife out?”

“Yeah, I turned him over. Then I had to go let the dogs out.”

“Did you take the knife with you?”

“No, it fell on the floor. I never saw it again, even after I came back.”

“You came back?”

“I needed to get Jackson out of the fire. I know his momma—well, I seen her here at the track. If Jackson had burned it wouldn't have shown respect for his family.”

“Are you saying you moved the body?”

“Didn't have to. Jackson was gone. I thought he maybe crawled away. I thought he was dead but maybe I was wrong. Then the police said they found him where I found him—the first time when I fell over him in the doorway to the office. Only I don't think he crawled back.”

“Let me get this straight—you first fell over Jackson in the doorway, here,” Dan pointed to the iPad screen. “You pulled the knife out of his back and turned him over?” Vigorous nodding. “Then you ran to let the dogs out and when you came back to the office, Jackson's body was gone?”

More nodding. “Just like those dogs.”

“What dogs?”

“Max and Mellow Yellow and Sandy—”

“Wait. Slow down a little here. I don't know these dogs.”

“The ones that died. Only I never saw them. When I went to open those crates? They were empty.”

“Which crates were these?”

“Right inside the door. I went to let them out first but every crate was open and no dog.”

No wonder he told Mel he hadn't seen them. He meant that they never existed—that they weren't there. Literal thinking always threw people a curve. “Did you tell the police this?”

“They said I forgot. They said the fire and smoke mixed me up. But Mister Mahoney, I know better. I know what I didn't see. All them crates were empty. They were in their crates when I fed them—that would have been about six. Then at seven-thirty they were put up in their crates again after they were exercised. But they weren't in those crates once the fire started.” Fucher's breath came in short bursts, “I never hurt them dogs. I loved them. I didn't start that fire. I didn't kill Jackson Sanchez. I want to go home. I want to see Sadie.” His voice now was a wail and the rocking was picking up in intensity.

Dan reached across and put his hand on Fucher's arm and left it there until the sobs subsided and he quieted. Then Dan took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. This put a wrinkle in things. He should probably just go ahead and extend the lease on the townhouse because something told him the young man sitting beside him wasn't capable of lying. And if he were telling the truth, UL&C would want more answers. Dan simply had to prove that the fire wasn't started by or at the bidding of someone who stood to gain from the killing of five greyhounds.

He hadn't planned on it but after walking Sadie around the parking lot and waving a few times to Fucher, Dan went back inside the building. He needed to pick up the copy of the police report he'd requested, and he might as well see if the arresting cop was available to answer a couple questions as long as he was here.

“You're in luck. Officer Bartlett is just getting off duty.” The girl at the desk presumably buzzed the locker room because a young man in street clothes stuck his head through the door to the reception area.

“You needed to see me?”

“Officer Bartlett? Dan Mahoney here. I'd like a couple minutes of your time—I have a few questions concerning the fire at the greyhound track this week.” Dan handed him a card.

“Sure. Is the conference room empty?” With a nod from the receptionist, Officer Bartlett picked up a key from her desk and indicated Dan follow him down a short hallway. “Not the most comfortable but it'll work.” He opened the door to roughly a five-hundred-square-foot space with a huge carved oak table that would seat at least fifteen, Dan thought. Metal folding chairs screamed tight budget and made him think the table was probably donated. And, no, it wasn't really comfortable—the table was way too high for the chairs, but Dan took a seat. He briefly explained who he was and why he was there—five dead dogs whose deaths needed to be investigated.

“Now, how can I help?” Officer Bartlett pulled up a chair opposite.

“You were the first on the scene at the track fire, correct?” Dan continued after a nod from the officer. “What were your reasons for arresting Mr. Crumm?”

“Well, other than he had blood all over him and we'd found a body and a knife. We figured we had a pretty good reason to detain him. He admitted he'd handled the knife but tried to tell us the body had disappeared and then showed up again. Some kind of screwy story. Same thing with those dogs that died.”

“Did you see the dogs?”

“The bodies? No, the vet had bagged them and already had them loaded in his truck by the time we got there. Only body we dealt with was this Jackson Sanchez.”

“Why do you think Fucher said the body moved?”

“Who knows? The guy's not right—you know, a couple bricks shy.”

Dan ignored the ill-timed attempt at humor. Bad taste, to say the least, and maybe hinted at a preconceived prejudice. Slapping cuffs on Fucher made his life easier. Solved a problem without a lot of work.

“Didn't you wonder why if he was the murderer he'd still be hanging around working—feeding and taking care of forty-five dogs?”

“Like I said you can't count on this guy to make much sense. I think he got confused, turned around by all the noise and smoke. Do I think he could have killed Mr. Sanchez and started a fire to cover it up? Yeah, I do. In my line of work you learn to never underestimate the handicapped. The call I hate to take most? When someone mentally impaired is holding a family hostage. Or doing anything threatening, for that matter. It's like walking into a minefield. You just never know what's going to happen.”

“And you think he would have knowingly endangered the lives of the dogs he cared for by starting a fire? I've talked to Fucher. He may be a bit challenged, but I think he pretty much knows right from wrong and recognizes danger when he sees it.”

“When it comes to all those dogs in the kennel that night, I don't think he thought things through. I don't think he's capable of following a thought to its logical conclusion.”

“But this same individual was able to save the lives of forty-five dogs—that seems to take some deductive reasoning.”

“He lost five—didn't you just say that's your interest in the case? Five insured animals? Hey, I don't think I can help you any so if you don't have any more questions, I'm a little behind in some end-of-the-day R & R. By the way, it turns out this Fucher had a pretty good reason to be angry at Jackson Sanchez. Guess the guy was trying to get him fired. That's reason enough in my books to do him in.”

Dan stood. This was a dead end and a little unnerving. He hated closed minds and the man in front of him certainly seemed to have one. He thanked the officer, picked up the incident report from the receptionist, and walked out to the SUV. Slipping behind the wheel he instantly got a wet kiss on the ear and didn't reprimand Sadie as she crawled over the console into the passenger-side front seat. He liked this dog and he really liked the dog's owner. Dan was beginning to think of Fucher as having been framed. Dangerous thinking. He had no evidence and was letting emotions push in. Yet that cop left a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe he shouldn't read more into it. It was probably just what he said, he was in a hurry to get away from work and unwind. Still…a lack of feeling and a bit too quick to finger-point. No, not enough to judge someone on. Dan admonished himself to keep an open mind.

Chapter Five

“Mom's moving to Florida.” Dan folded the letter and slipped it back into its lilac-scented envelope. Even his tech-savvy mother reverted to some time-honored Emily Post tradition of only the written word would do in matters of importance. He would have thought an email would have sufficed. Not the guaranteed to get there within twenty-four hours delivery that cost her an arm and a leg. He'd sent their new address via email. Had that been a mistake? He hadn't lived in the same state as his mother in over twenty years. He hadn't counted on starting now.

“She's coming here? Are you joking?” Elaine took a toaster out of the box marked “kitchen.” Joan hadn't been kidding, her garage held all the comforts of home. And their new home was shaping up—furniture in place, dishes in cupboards—they'd spent the weekend acting like newlyweds. Putting the finishing touches on the first “place” they'd lived in together. Granted, it was a rental and destined to be short-lived, but still they were having more than a little fun fixing things up.

“I may wish I was.”

“She's not moving in—”

“With us? No. Mom would be the first to nix that.”

“So where in Florida is she moving? I presume with Stanley?”

“Someplace called The Villages and, yes, Stanley seems to be very much in the picture.”

“I really like your mother. I'd be the first to say dear sister Carolyn can be a pain in the ass, but your mom seems to really have it together—you know, confident of what she wants and goes for it. This could be a good thing.”

“True. She wants us to help with their house-hunt.”

“So it's close to here?”

“About an hour and a half away. Seventy-five miles, to be exact, on the other side of Orlando.”

“Tell her we'll do it. We have a little ‘wait and see' time. You still have some interviewing to do but didn't you say the track's not due to reopen for another couple days? It'll be fun.”

Fun probably wouldn't be his descriptive term, but like Carolyn, he felt his mother in small doses could be…interesting. Stanley, he wasn't sure about. The only time he'd been around him, Dan had listened to an hour's diatribe on the need to unionize college ball and quit screwing over the players. That, a sadly overdone smoked turkey, and warm beer just about summed up the afternoon. How often could he put himself through that?

“Oh no. Look at this.” Elaine had flipped open her laptop and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Maggie Mahoney may want to consider running drugs in her new community. One little blue pill can go as high as fourteen dollars.”

“Viagra? Isn't this a senior community?”

“Don't be naive. It's not supposed to wear out.” The gesture, index-finger extended, appeared to be aimed at his crotch.

“Right.” Dan didn't need an explanation of what “it” was; he just willed himself to tune back into what she was saying and stop figuring out how many good years his “it” had left.

“Listen to this—The Villages is a hot bed…literally…for STDs and the human papilloma virus.”

“Seriously? What about golf courses, lakes, clubs…you know, regular amenities?”

“I am being serious. Sex seems to be the amenity. A little value-added. Couples have been picked up for doing it in golf carts, poolside, in the sauna—”

“You're making this up.”

“Take a look.” Elaine turned her laptop toward him.

Dan leaned forward and scanned the article. Then he pulled up another. This wasn't some shock-factor writing by a reporter seeking his or her fifteen minutes of fame; there were a number of articles from several newspapers including the
Times
. Even a gynecologist warning women to insist upon protection. To not take for granted that just because they might be too old to get pregnant that there weren't some other worries out there.

Still it was a little tough to accept…his mother and all. The caption under the picture of a golf cart heading away from the photographer, the woman's arms around the driver—“sex on wheels.” Another article, presumably more of a sales pitch, headlined—“If you weren't ‘lucky' in high school, get ‘lucky' now!”

Dan closed the laptop.

“Do you think she has any idea?” Elaine was placing the toaster next to a coffee grinder on the counter.

“I would doubt it. I think we need to check it out first. I can't believe the articles were telling the truth. Just more sensationalism, I hope.”

“Are you suggesting a road trip?”

“Why not? I'd feel better if I could talk about the place objectively. I'm sure there are other places in Florida to live. We could look into one of those seaside communities. A condo in Ormond Beach, maybe—they're advertised everywhere.”

“I think we should. I don't see the attraction of a community that's landlocked. Unless Stanley plays golf?”

“Don't ask me but I'd guess he does. The word ‘duffer' comes to mind when I think of him.”

“Dan, be nice. This is your mother's life and if she's happy with Stanley, then we should be, too.”

Dan wasn't sure about that line of reasoning but he had to hand it to his mother; at seventy-four (or was she only admitting to seventy-two?), she was out having fun. How many cruises had she taken last year alone? He should be thankful he wasn't visiting or supporting her in a nursing home. And Stanley? Well, he just wouldn't spend a lot of time thinking about that.

“Do we have a date of arrival?”

“Mom said they were hoping to be here this week.”

“So soon?”

“I think they've been planning this for awhile. Our being here just seems to have hastened the decision.”

“How sweet. You should be flattered.”

Maggie Mahoney had never struck him as “sweet” and had never needed backup to make up her mind. There was something odd about wanting him involved. Guess he'd find out why quickly enough.

***

“You know what? This is Disneyland for adults.” Dan braked quickly for a golf cart that careened into his path. “The area is beautiful—I have to give it that. Lake Sumter, inland canals…” He'd turned onto the main boulevard that led to the center of the “town.” So this was the infamous Villages. He kept looking but he didn't see a bicycle or anyone walking and he didn't see an animal on a leash—no one out for a stroll with the family Yorkie or French Bulldog. In fact, there weren't
any
animals, on a leash or off. No errant squirrel or rabbit dashing across the road in front of him, and he hadn't seen a bird in five miles. Roadkill? What was that? The place was clean. Amend that, sterile would be a better word. God forbid he should see a little graffiti. That was probably a hanging offense.

They seemed to have arrived at Lake Sumter Landing Market Square. That alone was a mouthful. Brightly colored storefronts, hanging pots of flowers, scrubbed sidewalks, and not one place to park. Some parking spots held three golf carts all lined up. He continued driving block after block, thinking that the public parking lots would have room—but no. Frustrating. And all the time he had to be on the lookout for golf carts. They were everywhere.

Dan idly wondered if they held recreational events with the ubiquitous carts—some form of chariot racing in a coliseum on weekends, maybe. Okay, now he was just letting his imagination run wild, but the generation he was looking at had driven some souped-up cars in their day. He tried to conjure up what a turbocharged golf cart would look like.

“Dan, quick, a parking place.” Elaine pointed to her left. The last spot in a public lot. “It'll be fun to walk around a little.”

A stroll in The Villages wasn't Dan's idea of fun, still he would like some lunch and there was a feeling of relief that he wouldn't be circling the rest of the afternoon just trying to land.

The main street seemed to have all the usual stores and restaurants. Italian sounded good and the Red Sauce looked inviting. With a population of over sixty thousand in mostly an over-sixty demographic, eating out was a way of life. He quickly noticed that the twenty- and thirty-something wait people stood out in stark contrast. He wondered where they lived. On the periphery outside city limits, he guessed. He was tempted to say outside “the dome” because that's what it reminded him of—a special, sterile living bubble that dropped over a certain few acres and kept an homogenous way of life intact.

He remembered reading that there was a fifty-five-year-old requirement for residency and no one under nineteen could visit longer than thirty days in any calendar year. Wow. He never thought he'd long for kids on skateboards, but he was getting close.

“Mr. Mahoney, how nice to see you again.” Dixie Halifax stepped out from a booth. “I'd like you to meet my mother, Agnes Halifax, and my father, John. I wouldn't have expected to see you here.” A sweet half-smile from Agnes, a nod from John.

Dan introduced Elaine and explained they were on a check-it-out sort of trip for his mother and her partner. He hoped he was being correct that “partner” didn't denote only same-sex arrangements. But what did you call “live-ins”? You couldn't use the word “lover” in polite company, not that he even associated that word with his mother, and “mate” seemed dated and at the very least gave him an Aussie accent. Significant other? He remembered picking up a popular magazine recently that had an article on “Sig-Os.” No, “partner” was the best choice.

“My parents moved here last year and love it.” Dixie had sat back down. “Good to see you make use of a little track downtime. Things will get busy once we open up again.” She passed the breadbasket to her mother.

Dismissed. Apparently allotted small-talk time was over and Dan and Elaine followed the hostess to a booth at the back of the dining area.

“A shame Dixie's parents aren't able to speak for themselves.” Elaine was being a little snide, but those were his sentiments exactly. The lady seemed to have real control issues. “I can see why Melody didn't want to cross her.”

“Me, too. I'm glad we took Sadie in.”

“So what do you think? Is the place a thumbs-up for Maggie and Stanley?” The entrees of pasta and sauces were excellent, salads crisp, bread fresh…crème brulee, a perfect touch with coffee. With the dishes removed and only the coffee left, it felt good to just relax and talk. Based on the last few months, this was a luxury. Elaine leaned against the cushioned seatback.

“I have to look at things through their eyes. I'd hate it but I'm not in my seventies and not a golfer. It's probably fine for them. Maybe they could rent for awhile—not make a decision to buy until they were sure.”

“I'd agree to that.” Now if he could only convince his mother.

“Your mom still has an apartment in Chicago but spends a lot of her time visiting Carolyn in New Mexico. Do we know where Stanley is from?”

“She met him on a cruise—I've forgotten which one. I think it was the Arthur Murray cruise—billed as a dance camp on the waves.”

“That sounds so romantic.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Okay, he needed a little work in the romance department but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he lived to be a hundred, he wouldn't be tripping the light fantastic on the deck of a cruise ship. Nope. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

“Let's go look at some houses.” Elaine pushed out of the booth and stood. The sideways glance made him think she'd read his mind.