At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  * * *

  Shortly before seven, a police car pulled down the lane and jerked to a halt between the barns. As the officer climbed out and grabbed a clipboard off the dash, a dirt-streaked white Taurus parked alongside the grain bin. I answered questions that had become increasingly familiar in the past two weeks, while the driver of the Taurus popped the trunk and levered himself out of his car. He wasn't in uniform, and judging by the equipment he'd hefted onto the asphalt, I guessed he was a technician of some sort. When he joined us, carrying a black duffel bag with HCPD stenciled on the side in one hand and a heavy-looking aluminum case in the other, we walked into the barn.

  I glanced over my shoulder when one of them whistled.

  The uniformed cop adjusted his mirrored sunglasses. "How many horses you got in this place?"

  "In both barns, one hundred and ninety three."

  He whistled again, then grinned at his partner. "Look like they're in jail, don't they?"

  The plainclothes cop didn't respond, and I wondered what was eating him. We stopped at the tack room door.

  "They broke in here," I said. "But we can get in through the undamaged door in the other aisle. I nailed this one shut, because I didn't want the employees or boarders to see what's inside."

  "And what's that?" the uniformed cop said.

  I glanced at my reflection in his glasses and realized how disconnected I felt because I couldn't see his eyes. I told him about Boris. "I was hoping to keep it quiet. Some of the boarders loved that cat."

  "Did you touch anything?"

  "No. Oh, yeah. The light switch."

  "Humph. We'll start processing the scene, but I can't guarantee we'll be done in time for what you want."

  I skirted a puddle in the wash rack and ducked under the divider that allowed two horses to be bathed at once. "We can cut through here," I said over my shoulder, "to get to the other aisle." I turned in time to see them hesitate. The grumpy guy crinkled his nose and proceeded as if he were in alien territory. Smiling to myself, I took the opportunity to rinse my hands under the spigot. A minty scent, left over from liniments and leg braces, clung to the walls.

  The uniformed cop stood beside me as I unlocked the door. "You'll need to make a preliminary list of the items that were stolen and their estimated value."

  "It'll be a rough estimate," I said. "Very rough, like not even in the ballpark kind of rough."

  He grinned. "That'll do for now. You can submit a more accurate inventory later."

  As I opened the door and stepped back, a dark green Crown Victoria pulled alongside the patrol car. Detective Ralston climbed out and clicked the door shut. His wrinkled suit hung loosely off his shoulders. He looked as if he hadn't made it to bed the night before, or if he had, he'd slept in his clothes.

  He introduced himself to his Howard County counterparts, mentioned Detective Linquist, then looked at me. "What've we got, Steve?"

  For an answer, I pushed the door open with my boot. Detective Ralston walked inside, looked around, and came back out.

  He yawned. "Did you touch anything?"

  I rubbed my thumb across my fingertips. "The light switch." I pointed across the room. "Over there." He looked at me as if I should have known better. "I didn't in the other tack rooms, though," I said and thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

  "How many people have access to this room?"

  "Fifty-plus."

  Ralston grunted, and the plainclothes cop, who was standing behind him, scowled. His expression said loud and clear that he thought he was wasting his time.

  "If the burglars had any sense," Ralston continued, "they wore gloves."

  "Even if they didn't," the plainclothes cop said, "with all that traffic, it won't matter."

  Ralston looked at the man, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. "When's Gary gonna show?" he said.

  The cop shrugged.

  After the Howard County team stepped into the tack room and dumped their equipment on the floor, Ralston went back to his car. I separated out four flakes of hay, fed the last two horses at the far end of the aisle, and squinted at Ralston's car. He was on the phone, and I would have bet half my paycheck that he was bending Detective Sgt. Gary Linquist's ear.

  Five minutes later, Ralston strolled back into the barn and stood looking into the tack room. He folded his arms across his chest and watched the uniformed officer take pictures. The glare of the flash bounced off the walls and the ceiling . . . and Boris. I checked my watch. Seven-ten. It would be a miracle if the crew didn't end up standing around with their mouths open, gawking at the cat, then telling everyone they could think of about it, and the story would become unnecessarily sensationalized and blown out of proportion.

  I stuck my head in the doorway. "Would you let me know when you're done in there? I want to clean up as soon as possible."

  The uniformed cop looked up and nodded. "No problem."

  Ralston started in on the questions. I hadn't seen anyone. The sodium vapors were still on. The place had been dead. He rubbed his face. "You're the first person here every morning?"

  "Usually."

  "How common's that knowledge?"

  "I have no idea."

  "What did you think when you saw the blood?"

  "That there was a person around the corner." I looked him in the eye. "A dead person."

  He grunted. "What did you think when you saw the cat?"

  I blinked. "Think?"

  He waited.

  "That someone was playing a game," I said and felt that Ralston could read my every thought. Was sure he could imagine every damn feeling I'd had the pleasure of exploring earlier that morning. "A mind game."

  "You think it was directed at you personally?"

  I shrugged.

  "If it's the same crew, they probably had you in mind." When I didn't respond, he said, "When, exactly, did you discover the burglary?"

  "Around five-thirty."

  He frowned. "Was the blood dry?"

  "It was damp. Kind of tacky."

  "They hadn't been gone long."

  I looked at the floor and kicked at a few wisps of hay with the toe of my boot. Someone hadn't done a very good job sweeping up the night before.

  "You might want to change your routine."

  Change my routine. Easy for him to say.

  "So," Ralston said. "You think the events are related because of the excessive brutality."

  I nodded. "They didn't need to do that."

  Ralston shifted his weight and leaned on the doorjamb. "Burglars normally don't waste time leaving such an elaborate message, not unless there's a reason for it. Especially since they must have known they were running out of time." Ralston poked his head into the tack room. "Did Gary tell you this case might be related to an open homicide?"

  The uniformed cop looked up from where he'd been trying to enhance a print, a small brush poised in his hand. "Yes, sir. He did."

  "Also," I said to Ralston. "It looks like they knew the layout of the farm. They didn't touch the school horses' tack room. The saddles in there are cheap."

  I glanced over Ralston's shoulder. Marty was strolling into the barn, a questioning look on his face. I hurried to cut him off.

  "Steve, what the fuck's goin' on?"

  "Someone made off with a truck load of saddles and--"

  "No shit."

  "No shit. The police are collecting evidence now, so please stay away from all three tack rooms. If you see the guys before I do, let them know. Oh, and the school horses' tack room wasn't touched, so you can do whatever you have to in there."

  "Wow. I don't believe it. First the horses, now this." He calmly looked at my face. "Someone doesn't like us very much, do they?"

  "Apparently not. By the way, has this happened before? A tack theft I mean?"

  "Not that I know of. Not since I've been here."

  I sighed. The morning seemed to be going on forever. "Let's get to work. Most of the haying's done over here. Go help out in barn B, t
hen we'll start turnouts."

  "Okay, boss."

  I watched him saunter off without a care in the world, and I envied him.

  A half hour later, the uniformed cop told me they were finished in the tack room.

  "How'd it go?" I asked.

  "Everywhere they would've touched, we got nothin' but smudges."

  "They were wearing gloves," I said.

  "Looks that way. We do have some good tool marks to work with, which reminds me. I need your signature." He handed me the clipboard and showed me where to sign.

  "What good are tool marks?"

  "Aren't good for nothin', not until Detective Ralston figures out who did it. Then we can compare their tools with the impressions."

  "Oh," I said, and he could probably see I wasn't impressed.

  I watched him head to the other barn. Out in the lane, Ralston and Detective Linquist were talking to Brian, and I wondered when I'd hear about that.