by Todd Borg
Mallory rubbed Spot vigorously behind his ears. Spot seemed not to care. “Does that fit with your sense?” Mallory looked at me. I couldn’t tell if he really wanted my opinion or if he was just trying to make me feel like a part of the process.
“Yeah, that seems a likely scenario,” I said.
Mallory stared at Spot. Spot hung his head. Mallory’s forehead was creased with deep wrinkles.
“My canine struggles with human death,” I said. “This is a particularly brutal experience.”
Mallory pointed over to the professional K-9. “The German Shepherd looks pretty bummed, too.”
I turned to follow his point. The police dog was sitting in the snow next to its handler. The dog’s tongue was out, panting. When you know the German Shepherd breed, you learn to see the difference between a vigorous pant to cool off and the stressed pant of anxiety. This was anxiety. The dog’s ears were back. It hung its head. And its gaze went left and right as if searching for some sense of comfort.
“C’mon, Spot, let’s go see if we can put on some cheer.” I slipped my fingers under his collar and pulled him with me. When we got to the officer and his dog, I introduced Spot and myself. The man was in his late twenties, and he looked a bit gray with shock.
“I’m Christopher Benning, and this is Davis,” he said, looking at his dog.
We shook hands.
“It’s been a tough afternoon for Davis, huh, boy?” Christopher bent down and pet his dog. “Tough for your dog, too, I guess. He’s the one who found the first pieces, right? Sorry if that’s the wrong word to use. I’m still pretty new at this stuff.”
“No problem,” I said.
“Someone said you were a cop in San Francisco.”
I nodded. “After twenty years, I decided to come up here and try the private version.”
“I started out as a rookie in Vacaville,” Christopher said, “and then I heard about an opening on the SLTPD, so I transferred up to the lake. All I wanted was to ride. Snowboard in the winter, mountain bike in the summer. I love dogs, so I applied for K-nine training.” Christopher looked down at his dog. “Davis is a natural. Smarter than I was in the third grade. He and I worked on his training for two years. He aced all the tests, and we were chosen to be a K-nine unit.” Christopher looked around at the snow dump. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “I knew being a cop would be tough at times. But I never imagined this.”
I reached out and squeezed his shoulder.
“You focus on Davis, you’ll get through these things fine.”
“I guess. But this is nasty stuff. As long as you’re here, would you mind holding Davis’s leash for a minute. I need to check in with the sergeant.”
I nodded and took the leash, and Christopher walked off.
Davis stood up, a bit startled at being left alone with me and Spot. I took the opportunity to introduce the dogs to each other.
Usually, dogs meeting each other is a happy affair, sniffing and appraising and taking in the doggie body language that helps them sort out their social structure. But as Spot came close to the German Shepherd, they regarded each other without much interest.
The shepherd was nervous, not because Spot was twice his size but because a man had died, and the shepherd had been tasked with finding many of the pieces.
When Christopher came back, Davis pulled toward him. He didn’t wag, but he was obviously eager to go somewhere else.
A thought came to me. “Hey Christopher,” I said. “I would like to do one more search on another item. My dog is clearly not the same caliber as yours. Would you mind sending Davis out again?”
“I suppose. He won’t like it, but I guess that’s part of his job. What kind of a search?”
“I’ve got another item, a pillowcase, from another missing person. I don’t imagine that there will be anything to find, but what if?”
“I’ll wait,” Christopher said.
I went back to the Jeep and brought out the pillowcase in the plastic bag.
Christopher went through the routine with Davis, making certain the dog had a few good whiffs with the pillowcase over its nose. When Christopher gave the search command, Davis trotted off. There was no enthusiasm in the dog’s movement, but his focus was obvious.
The dog went over to the edge of the snow dump. I saw no sign of scent recognition, but Davis was smart enough to go to the area that yielded the results on the first missing person. Davis went down the edge of the field of piled snow, then turned around and came back. Sometimes he held his nose near the ground. And sometimes he held his head high, air scenting. When he got to the corner of the snow piles, he turned and trotted down the side where the dead-end canal had been cut in the snow. The dog went past the opening of the snow canal without slowing. He retraced his steps and still found nothing.
Davis went another thirty yards into a new area. He stopped with a jerk so sudden, it was as if someone had an invisible leash on him and yanked it tight.
Davis lifted his nose into the air, turned a circle, then ran up onto the snow piles. He trotted along, up and down over the humps, then made another abrupt stop. He put his nose to the snow, then started digging.
Christopher started jogging toward Davis.
Davis went down a half foot, then lowered his nose into the hole and pulled out yet another piece of fabric. He turned and trotted off the snow dump, across the plowed area and out toward Christopher, who used an evidence bag to take the fabric. Christopher pet Davis vigorously. The two of them walked back to me.
Mallory was approaching from the side and got to me just as Christopher and Davis came near.
“Your dog doesn’t have to keep searching,” Mallory said to his officer. “We have enough evidence for now.”
“Mr. McKenna asked me to do one more search using a different item.”
“What item is that?”
I held up the pillowcase. “This is Darla Ali’s pillowcase.”
“The missing girl,” Mallory said. He turned to Christopher. “Your dog found something?”
Christopher held up the bag. Inside was a large piece of fabric.
“That’s purple,” Mallory said. “Nothing like the denim or the other fabric pieces.”
“Sanford Burroughs let me into Darla’s room,” I said. “I looked in her closet. About half of her clothes were purple. And Sanford said that she was wearing a purple jacket the last day he saw her.”
“Christ,” Mallory said. He crushed his empty Coke can into a wad so small, it was as if it were made of tissue. “The missing girl was butchered here, too? This isn’t just a sick murder, this is a disaster.”
FOURTEEN
Christopher sent Davis on several additional searches. The dog brought back multiple pieces of evidence that made it clear that Darla Ali had met the same fate as Sean Warner. The cops all stayed focused on the job even as a dark mood settled over everyone.
“You know how ‘live finds’ cheer up depressed dogs?” I said to Christopher after Mallory left.
He frowned. “One of the search-and-rescue trainers mentioned that, but it seemed a bit touchy-feely. We did lots of mock searches in training. But we all thought it was just about teaching dogs to perform search and rescue. Are you saying that it really helps their mood?” He looked down at his dog whose head was low.
“Yeah. Finding human bodies is the worst for dogs. Why don’t you go hide and I’ll send the dogs after your scent? When they find you, they’ll be very glad to have found you alive and not dead. It’ll make them feel better.”
Christopher said, “Okay. Where do you think I should go?”
“Don’t look around as I talk to you, or it will give it away to the dogs. What do you have that I can scent them on?”
“My cap or my jacket. We learned in search-dog training that caps and pillowcases are best. Anything that comes in contact with the head.”
“Cap it is. There’s a panel truck off to your left, down about a half a block. It’s parked in fr
ont of a big snowbank. There’s a slight breeze coming from that direction, so the truck is mostly upwind of where we are now. That would be a good place to hide. But let’s not clue the dogs in advance that we’re arranging something unusual. So be very casual and take off your cap.” He did as I said. “Both dogs are watching you. Make a show of looking over toward Mallory on your right as you hand me your cap with your left hand.”
Christopher did as I suggested. The dogs watched him turn and look toward Mallory. Christopher held out the cap with his left hand. Moving slowly, I took the cap and stuffed it into my pocket.
Scanning in the opposite direction from the panel truck, I looked toward the forest. “I’ll take the dogs for a little walk into the forest behind those trees on the other side of the snow dump so they can’t see you. That will put them a bit out of line from your scent trail. We don’t want their search to be too easy. I’m guessing that your dog will be tempted to follow your walking path, bloodhound style. But he’ll also be crossing your drifting scent plume. So he may abandon your trail and try to go directly to you once he’s got your scent.”
“Got it,” Christopher said. “No doubt you saw how I send Davis on a search?”
“Yeah. Same approach I use with my dog. I’ll walk away with the dogs. You go down that side street. Your dog will turn around to see where you’re going. But after we’re in the forest, you walk around the block, then get behind the snowbank on the other side of the truck. I’ll count to one hundred. Then I’ll scent the dogs on your cap and send them on a search.”
“Got it,” he said.
We both left on our missions. Davis came willingly on his leash, but he kept turning his head to watch Christopher recede down the block. He whined a bit, but I knew it would be worth it in the end. Spot was on my other side. Because of Spot’s height, I don’t need a leash. I just hold his collar.
I counted slowly as I walked. When we got to the forest and I knew the dogs couldn’t see Christopher, I stopped. At the count of 100, I started talking, making my voice excited.
“Okay, boys! Do you want to do a search? Sure you do! Davis, are you ready? Spot, are you ready to search?” I put my hands on their chests and vibrated them. “Okay, time to smell Christopher’s cap!” I put the cap on each of their noses. “Do you have the scent? Do you?” I unclipped Davis’s leash and let go of Spot’s collar. Then I dropped my hand in a pointing motion as I said, “Find the victim!”
I gave Spot a smack on his rear, his signal to search. But Davis was already sprinting away. He made little squeals as he ran back toward the place where we’d last stood with Christopher.
Spot ran fast, but a Dane is no match for a German Shepherd in acceleration. Danes can get up to high speed, but it takes time. Shepherds begin a run as if they were shot out of a bow.
As Davis came near to the place where we left Christopher, he did little leaps as he ran. He held his nose high, air-scenting. Spot was behind him. I couldn’t tell if Spot was following a scent or if he instinctively knew that it made more sense to follow the trained professional dog.
Davis jerked to a stop, turned 90 degrees, nose high in the air, and turned again. Then shot off in a new direction, directly toward the panel truck down the block.
Spot followed.
My last glimpse of them was as they leaped over the snowbank.
I trotted after them and found Christopher romping with both of them. The dogs were both jumping with excitement.
“Wow, it really works!” Christopher said. “Look at them! Good boys!” He tried to pet them, but they were jumping around too much.
“Now we should both take our dogs home without letting them go back to the snow dump and those smells. They will leave this area with happy memories.”
Christopher beamed at me. “Thank you so much. I never would have believed this if I hadn’t seen it.”
“Happy to help,” I said.
FIFTEEN
I drove home thinking about the warning note that had been stuck in my door. I took Spot for a short walk on the trail that went north along the side of the mountain behind my cabin. Although the snow level on the mountain where my cabin sits had risen to about 6600 feet in the warm spring sun, the trail near my cabin begins at 7000 feet and quickly climbs up to 8000 feet. It was still heavy with snow. I didn’t put on my snowshoes because I’d continuously tramped down the snow on the trail over the course of the winter. It supported my weight without my hiking shoes breaking through.
Ten minutes after we’d started, the sun, already low in the western sky, went behind a cloud. The sky immediately turned a cool blue gray.
Several times, Spot stopped and listened and sniffed the air. For what, I didn’t know. He turned his head and looked up the mountain, but mostly it seemed that he was sampling the wind. I’d seen him do it many times before and in many different places. It always made me envious, and I marveled at the world of inputs available to dogs. I felt blind by comparison.
I followed Spot’s looks toward the mountain above us, but all I saw was the undulating snow-covered slope, surprisingly dark under the heavy tree canopy. It was a condition that would provide perfect cover to any mountain lion or other predator that wanted to sneak up on their prey.
After we were back in the cabin, there was a double rap at the door. Spot was on his bed. He lifted his head but didn’t bark. He wagged. Which meant friend.
I opened the door.
Diamond Martinez entered. Instead of his crisp, ironed, sheriff’s uniform with the badge and patches, he was wearing a red flannel shirt, faded blue jeans, and cowboy boots. I’d never seen him in cowboy boots.
I pulled beers out of the fridge, opened them, and handed him one.
Diamond took it.
Spot was watching Diamond from his bed, and he thumped his tail on the floor. Diamond walked over and pet him.
Spot stopped the tail thumping and breathed big, deep breaths, which indicated that he was finally getting the affection he thought he deserved.
Diamond gave Spot a final aggressive rub, then stood up, walked over to the slider and pulled it open. I followed him out onto the deck. Spot jumped up and joined us. The sun was just moving behind another cloud. The lake immediately turned slate-gray.
I handed Diamond the warning note.
“The cross hairs make sense,” he said. “Stop working the case or you’ll be shot. But I don’t get the star.”
Diamond leaned back against the deck railing. He took another sip of beer, set the bottle on the railing, crossed one boot over another, and stuck his fingertips into his pockets.
“You’re projecting an impressive Pancho Villa vibe,” I said. “Cowboy boots and a casual south-of-the-border masculinity. You ever see Maria anymore? I bet she responds to that, huh?”
Diamond shook his head. “She’s too focused on her improvements,” he said.
“Improvements to what?”
“Me.”
“Ah,” I said. “Hard to tolerate the softening influence of a woman with a big personality. Be like lotion ruining your rough hands.”
Diamond looked at me with cold, unflinching eyes.
“Like listening to opera,” I said. I sensed Diamond trying to hold his tough look. “Going to art museums. Reading a novel that contains no horses or guns. Watching the ballet on PBS, right?”
Diamond said, “I’ve always noticed that tall, pale-faced gringos with beautiful girlfriends tend to indulge in an excess of judgment.”
“Street would disagree in part. She thinks she’s too thin and that her acne scars seriously mar the picture.”
Diamond made a single head shake. “Common, negative self-delusion, something which many suffer and to which you seem immune. But lose the norte skin and ten inches of height, you might find yourself hanging onto what little defines you as a man. Mexican machismo is a gift of identity.”
I tried to keep a straight face, but I couldn’t help grinning. “You take a risk, don’t you think, hitching your
concept of masculinity to Mexican machismo?”
Diamond swigged beer. “As the novelist Carlos Fuentes said, ‘I live through risk. Without risk there is no art. You should always be on the edge of a cliff about to fall down and break your neck.’”
“Like Pancho Villa,” I said. “He tried to Robin-Hood Mexico away from the rich and give it to the poor and got assassinated for his efforts. Talk about risk.”
Diamond turned his head and looked down at the lake. He gave no hint of his mood.
“Making any progress?” he asked.
“I found your missing person, Sean Warner. He was killed.”
“I heard something of it on my radio. Where was it?”
I explained about finding his car at the South Lake Tahoe impound lot, using his glove for scent, and sending Spot on a search over at the snow dump where Warner’s car had been found.
“You really believe that someone chewed him up with a highway snowblower.”
“Looks like it. And they didn’t stop at Sean.” I explained about Darla Ali.
“Gives me a bad feeling,” Diamond said. “That M.O. is a long way from Scarlett Milo’s shooting.”
