Canine Christmas (12 page)

I had donned my bright Day-Glo orange-colored rescue suit and was fully protected from the cold and wind. I attached the long leads to Caesar's harness, then Mark Anthony's, stepped aside, and watched them bail out of their cages with unrestrained enthusiasm. They are two highly trained, man-trailing bloodhounds from my kennel. I tucked items into my zippered pockets and attached a quart water bottle. Jasmine Jones parked her van behind mine.

I watched her unload. We wore identical suits. My hair is a mousy brown. Her black tresses artfully hugged her scalp and complemented her long regal neck. She is African-American with skin one shade lighter than milk chocolate. I'm pale, never tan, and look like the girl next door after a bad night.

I hired and trained her in man-trailing, search-and-rescue, and drug searches. She lives beside me in a garage apartment and we are close friends.

Jasmine unloaded Ashley and Miz Melanie and secured them to the van. She smiled and started toward me. I met her halfway.

“For right now we'll leave the backpacks here.”

“Right. Aren't you taking your gun?” Her holster was fastened over her rescue suit.

“Never leave home without it.” I patted my left breast. “Move yours inside your suit. The dispatcher mentioned shots were fired. We're out in front if we mantrail. I don't want the perps to know we're carrying, might keep us from being used as target practice.”

“What do you know so far?” She was placing items in the pockets of her suit.

I glanced across the empty parking lot and saw Sheriff Philip Scroggins emerge from the double door of the Suwannee Swifty convenience store. He spotted us and waved.

“Have you ever met Sheriff Scroggins?” I asked.

“Last June, when the Shop‘n’ Go was hit. You were busy with the seminar.”

“Right, I'd forgotten. Brace yourself. Here he comes.”

“Oh, dis ol' gal don't have to fret‘bout being bearhugged,” she drawled, parodying southern mush-mouth. “I be duh wrong color for dat!”

I examined her guileless countenance and saw a hint of a smile on her lips.

“It's getting to where I can't take you out in public,” I complained. “Behave yourself.”

We lifted the sagging yellow crime scene tape and ducked under.

Sheriff Philip Scroggins was sixty-five, bald, and almost as wide as he was tall. He was five feet four and weighed over two hundred pounds. He had been my father's friend and was now mine. His booming voice was always a shock to the senses.

“Jo Beth, darlin', how are you?” he bellowed, grabbing me around my waist and lifting me a foot off the ground.

“Not breathing,” I grunted. “Put me down … please?”

He complied, then grabbed Jasmine.

“Jasmine, my beauty! I'm so glad to see you!” He held her aloft and turned two complete circles before releasing her.

The shocked expression on her face made me start giggling, which I tried to cover with a fake fit of coughing.

He thundered an apology. “Me carrying on like this, while a good woman was murdered in there a little over an hour ago. I'm ashamed of myself.”

He contemplated the building and turned back to face us.

“Who died?” I asked.

We were in Collins, the county seat of Gilsford County. It was only twenty miles to Balsa City, my hometown, and I knew a lot of people here.

“Mrs. Walter Pearson, only fifty-seven years old. A nice widow woman with two grown sons.” He looked pensive. “Who expects to die during a robbery on Main Street at nine in the morning?” He sighed. “Sergeant Lyons is driving the sons home now. He'll be back shortly.”

I didn't know her. “Any witnesses?”

“I think we're gonna get lucky on this one, Jo Beth. I hope we have a credible witness and one of the perps lost his cap inside the store.”

My pulse quickened. We had a chance.

“The cap was bagged and not handled by anyone?” I inquired, trying to mask my anxiety.

Some deputies and bystanders will finger a scent item, searching for a name—or worse, pass it around like a collection plate. This contaminates the scent article with other people's scent.

“Rest easy honey, Lyons was the first officer on the scene. He found the witness and bagged the cap before the ambulance attendants arrived. Your scene isn't too contaminated either. The only ones who went inside were me, Lyons, and the ambulance attendants.”

Deputy Sergeant Tom Lyons and I were smiling enemies. He hates my smart mouth and feminist ways, and I despise the way he talks about women and mistreats his prisoners.

“Where's the witness?” I was anxious to get started.

“He's sitting in my squad car. Come on over and I'll introduce you.”

The three of us walked over to his car. Scroggins opened the door and nodded at me. I leaned down and saw a small black boy who was huddled in the far corner of the backseat. He was wrapped in a blanket and was clutching its folds under his chin. His eyes were showing too much white and his small hands were shaking. He stared at me.

“Hi,” I said awkwardly. “I'll be right back.”

I straightened, closed the door gently, and glared at Scroggins.

“Where's his mother? He should be taken home!”

“I agree,” he said quietly, “but so far he hasn't remembered his last name, and I'm certainly not going to let a pile of people line up and try to recognize him. How do I know that one of the perps isn't out there in the crowd standing around watching? Just a look at his face would traumatize the kid and we'd never get anything.

“He spoke a few words to Lyons when he found him in the store, then he clammed up, and started shaking. There were two black perps, and one lost his cap. They both had guns. One fired a shot in his direction when he spotted him peeking around the ice-cream case. He's got a right to be shaken up. His name is Malahki, and he's nine years old. I think this calls for a woman's touch so I'll leave you to it.”

Sheriff Scroggins squared his shoulders, marched off, and left it to us.

I huddled with Jasmine and spoke softly.

“Which dog do you prefer? I'm going to put two back in their cages. We're going to do this search by the book. No court appointed attorney is going to question the use of two dogs.”

“I'll work Ashley, but why don't I put them back while you question the kid? It'll save time.” She sensed the way the wind was blowing.

“Nope, Malahki is all yours. Cuddle and mother him. After he calms down, get all you can. I'll wait by the vans.”

She looked askance at my suggestion.

“I've never cuddled a kid in my life,” she stated succinctly, forcing the words through barely opened lips. “Why me, and not you?”

I used my best mush-mouth drawl.

“‘Cause Honey Chile, dis time
you
be the right color!”

I left her to it.

When I walked to the van I found both braces of bloodhounds with their leads twisted together. As I untangled them I decided to work Caesar. When I commanded Mark Anthony to load up, he sprang into his cage not knowing his day's outing was canceled. The same with Miz Melanie. When they discovered they were being left behind, they would moan and groan.

Bloodhounds love to trail. They enjoy searching for an illusive scent among many, many thousands of others. Every step we take we drop thousands of tiny skin particles, lint, and dust; all impregnated with our body odor which is unique. No two people smell the same. When a bloodhound is presented with an article that has been worn by one person they can lock onto the scent and follow.

However, the present strong wind had me worried. The ideal scent trailing is on a damp windless day with high humidity. The odor drops to the ground and hovers nearby. On days such as this, we could be searching over twenty to fifty feet away from the actual route the perp took. Hell, it could be blown into the next county by now, who knew?

Our sense of smell is infinitesimal compared to a blood-hound's. Many experts claim it can be a million or more times greater. So we humans train them, teach them manners and to follow orders, then let them drag us around. We can only hope that they are following the right scent. We certainly can't tell.

I taught myself from books several years ago, trained the hounds, then other handlers. I mostly used a brace of bloodhounds, meaning two. I have strong shoulders, and both of my arms are probably slightly longer than they should be. Controlling two dogs weighing over a hundred pounds apiece is not for the fainthearted, believe me.

Bloodhounds are the only breed of dogs whose testimony is considered in a court of law. I know, I know, times are changin', and soon other breeds will be allowed if they can pass the test of having the right criteria. Still, bloodhound owners point to this law that has been on the books for over a hundred years with great pride. The upstarts may claim the ability, but they can never match our long history in court cases.

The rules for bloodhound testimony are very specific. Each owner has to prove his or her man-trailer is AKC registered and has had successful experience in actual man-trailing. Their finds have to be documented and proven. The dog also has to be reliable and there must be supporting evidence. Every defense attorney picks at these threads and tries to unravel their evidential worth.

As of this day and as far as I know, the laws of Georgia do not exclude the evidence if one handler works two bloodhounds. The new proposed procedure would be one bloodhound and one human trainer. Seventeen other states now have passed this new provision into law. I know an ACLU lawyer upstate who is working to get the new law passed, as I stand here. I have no reservations about this one-on-one, especially for beginners, either human or canine. I would also like to note that the aforementioned lawyer lost a previous major case because a good ol' boy did everything right with three bloodhounds and fried his ass in court.

I couldn't take the chance in a murder investigation, so Jasmine and I would work one-on-one. The law might have already passed without my knowledge and ignorance of the law is no excuse.

“Well, Sweet Thang, how's tricks? Getting any lately?”

I'd recognize that voice on the dark side of the moon.

“Deputy Sergeant Lyons, I'll make this statement only once.” I enunciated each word slowly. “My name is Jo Beth Sidden. You may call me Jo Beth, Ms. Sidden, or hey you, but one more use of my name as slop or sexist drivel, I'll kick your balls into your rib cage.”

“Jo Beth, hon— listen, I'm mortified you're in such a sour mood. Pardon me all to hell and back. You've got a foul mouth just like me. How come you can call me names and I can't rib you a little? Answer me that!”

“Only friends can rib me, and you don't qualify. Also, we have a law that works to protect both you and me. We're equals, remember?”

“When hell freezes over,” he said sardonically.

I saw Sheriff Scroggins approaching with Jasmine by his side.

“May the bluebird of happiness shit on your pillow each morning,” I whispered.

Lyons opened his mouth to retaliate, then shot a foot in the air when the sheriff's voice boomed a greeting directly behind him.

I laughed and Lyons looked murderous. Even Scroggins could sense the testosterone wafting on the breeze.

“What?” Scroggins barked, looking from me to Lyons.

“We were discussing birds,” I explained.

Lyons flushed but remained silent. I turned to Jasmine.

“What did you get from Malahki?”

“His last name is Fenmore. There were two men; he doesn't remember any facial hair. Both were in jeans. The one who lost the cap had a red shirt, and the other had a black bomber jacket. Both fired one round at the clerk, and black jacket shot at Malahki. They heard or saw a car drive up. When they went out the door they turned right. Malahki didn't move from hiding until the customer came in and discovered the clerk's body. He wants to go home.”

“You did great,” I said. “I don't blame the kid. Did he tell you what he was doing in the store at nine? Shouldn't he have been in school?”

Jasmine hadn't looked my way since she arrived. She was p.o'd about having to do the questioning.

“He has a friend with a new computer game. He was killing time till the friend's mother left for work. They were gonna ditch and play games all day. He wants a policeman to take him home and explain why he isn't in school. He's afraid of getting a lickin'.”

“Sounds like he's recovered to me,” Scroggins commented with a grin. “Tom?”

Lyons reached inside his tunic and handed me the plastic Ziploc with the perp's cap. With my back to the sheriff I pretended to wet my index finger, and drew an imaginary line in the air for a one, meaning I had won the first skirmish. He flushed but remained mute, and left to find an officer to take the kid home. God, I was acting childishly, but it felt so good to pull his macho chain.

Jasmine and I silently unhooked the dogs, held up the sagging tape, and started across the parking lot.

“I'll stay outside,” boomed the sheriff. I gave him a backhanded wave and glanced at Jasmine.

“Thanks. I was right you know.”

Her expression softened and she gave me a ghost of a smile.

“Say you're sorry,” she demanded.

“I can do that.”

“Well?”

We were at the door of the store.

“Later,” I said with a grin, holding the door open.

I was the last one in. No sooner than the door closed, both dogs stopped, began an eerie whining, and tried to go through me in their haste to reach the door. Jasmine was struggling to pull Ashley back, and Caesar bulled his way between my legs, toenails scrabbling on the waxed tile floor, and wrapping his lead around my right leg.

“Go outside,” I yelled to Jasmine over the dogs' frantic baying, straining to grab Caesar's harness and remain upright.

I went down hard on my tailbone and saw stars floating in my blurred vision. The pain was intense.

“Are you all right?” Jasmine screamed. She was braced against the open door, holding on to Ashley for dear life. At the far limit of his lead, Ashley was pulling backward, trying to free himself.

I quickly hit my left shoulder twice with my left fist. It was a silent command to get the hell out. My head was throbbing in rhythm with my tailbone, and the dogs' howling was an added assault. I didn't feel like yelling. I had Caesar's harness clutched in my right hand and was trying to keep him out of my face. He was squirming on my legs trying to hide his head in my stomach. He weighs one hundred pounds. I had my hands full.