by Diane Kelly
I’d already spent quite a bit of time working the wildlife trafficking angle to no success, but because Sarki and the birds would only be valuable alive, I had not contacted any of the trophy-hunting outfits. The missing sprinkbok was another matter. Dinari could be worth more dead than alive, especially to a wealthy trophy hunter looking to add to his collection. Trophy hunters liked tamer prey for a couple of reasons. One, they were easier to shoot because they were habituated to humans and didn’t fear hunters nearly as much as their wild-born counterparts. And two, because they’d been raised in artificial environments, they made more attractive trophies, not bearing the scars and shabby fur of truly wild animals.
Bustamente wagged his fingers at me. “Get on your laptop and find all of the trophy-hunting ranches in the area. We’ve got to move quick before that springbok’s head ends up hanging on someone’s wall.” He tossed me a pad of sticky notes. “Write the names and phone numbers on those notes and hand them to me as you go.”
I set my laptop up on the corner of his desk, logged in to the Internet, and ran a search. I started with ranches in Tarrant and surrounding counties, jotting down the names and phone numbers, and making a row of sticky notes in front of Bustamente. Meanwhile, he was on his phone, calling each of them.
“If anyone tells you they’ve got a single springbok for sale,” he said to the person on the other end of the line, “get their contact information and pass it along to me right away.” He gave the person both his office and cell numbers. “Any time, day or night.”
I continued my search, eventually cyber-venturing into the next counties and secretly wishing the station would hire an intern. While I was glad to be part of such an important case, my skills were being squandered simply searching for information online. A college kid could compile this list. But I supposed not all detective work was particularly challenging or exciting. Again, if I wanted to be a detective, I’d have to take the bad with the good.
When the list seemed to keep growing and growing, I ran a search to find out how many trophy-hunting ranches there were in Texas. Google told me that there were over five hundred. Sheesh. I, in turn, told Bustamente, “There’s more than five hundred in Texas alone. Thousands across the U.S.” This task could be never-ending.
He looked down at his desk, which was covered with sticky notes three deep. “I’ll call the local TV stations, see if they can prod those up the chain to get this story on the national news. Meanwhile, find out something about welding. Everything I know about it could fit in this cup.” He raised his coffee mug, sloshing stale coffee over the rim and onto a couple of the sticky notes.
“Same for me,” I said. “The only thing I know about welding is that they teach it in prison.”
“Did Danny Landis learn welding while he was in the joint?”
“No. He took the custodial program.”
While the detective phoned the local television offices, I schooled myself in basic welding. Evidently there were many different types of welding and welding torches. Stick. MIG. TIG. Arc. Oxy-fuel. Fixed-position. Gas metal arc. Solid core. Flux core. The latter sounded like something from Back to the Future.
One article noted that an acetylene torch gives off a smell similar to garlic. Aha! When the detective was between calls, I mentioned this intriguing fact to him.
“What do you know,” he said. “The CSO’s ‘useless tidbit’ about his team member smelling garlic wasn’t so useless after all.”
On the contrary, it told us what type of tool the thieves had used to cut through the metal. Now, we just needed to get our hands on that particular tool, seize it as evidence. Armed with general information about welding, my next step would be to figure out where in the area a welder might be found.
While he waited on hold for a station manager, Bustamente gave me a suggestion. “Search job listings for welders. That’ll tell us who hires them.”
“Good idea.”
I searched several job-hunting Web sites. Indeed. Monster. Career Builder. Several large companies in the area had listings for welders, including the ones the chief had mentioned earlier. Lockheed Martin, the aerospace company in west Fort Worth. The General Motors plant in nearby Arlington, where my father worked. Oil and gas companies. Outfits that installed pipes, tanks, and sprinkler systems. Sheet-metal businesses. Of course there were smaller companies that did fence work. Collision-repair shops employed welders, too.
While searching online, I discovered the local community college offered a two-year welding program that would result in a Level 1 certification upon completion. Welding instruction was offered as part of the art curriculum at several area universities and art schools, allowing students to explore metal sculpture. Welding was even offered at some local high schools, including Trimble Technical High School, which sat within my beat. The Texas Workforce Commission also offered welding instruction through community learning centers.
To make sure I’d covered all the bases, I ran a search of recent arrests to see if anyone had been caught stealing animals or using welding equipment to access a building in a burglary. After I typed in key terms, an arrest report popped up. The report had been filed recently by one of the officers who worked in the westernmost division. He’d arrested a supervisor at an oil and gas company after hidden surveillance video showed the man stealing welding tools and equipment from a job site. The list of items stolen included three acetylene torches.
I connected to the detective’s wireless printer, circled my finger on my computer mouse pad, and clicked. His printer sprang to life, spitting out a copy of the report.
Bustamente completed his calls and hung up the phone. “School me.”
I gave him a quick rundown of the information I’d found. There were many businesses in the area that employed large numbers of welders, but there were small outfits and freelancers, too. Many different types of educational facilities offered welding instruction in the city. “I also found something interesting. Take a look at this.” I retrieved the printout from the tray and handed it to him.
He read it over and looked back up at me. “Is this guy still in custody?”
“I haven’t checked, but I doubt it.”
The chances were slim. Bail for most people who committed property crimes was generally set low enough that they could bond out.
Bustamente tapped some keys on his keyboard, maneuvered his mouse, and performed a few clicks before leaning in to look more closely at the screen. “He was released the next day. No attorney of record.”
The guy had represented himself. Not a smart move. If he were poor enough, an attorney would have been appointed to represent him. Presumably, he didn’t qualify for free representation. Of course some people who didn’t qualify nevertheless had a difficult time scraping together the money for a retainer. That could be the case here. There were also people who were too arrogant to hire legal counsel, who thought they could fight the system on their own. Those people were stupid. The procedures were complicated and the prosecutors were clever.
“Where should we start?” I asked.
“With the man who was arrested.”
“And then?”
After some discussion, we both agreed that a welder who was gainfully employed by a large company seemed least likely to need the money from the sale of stolen zoo animals. A starving student or freelance welder without a stable income seemed a better bet. Of course there was also the possibility that someone had bought an acetylene torch, a welding mask, and the other necessary gear and learned basic metal cutting and welding from a video on YouTube. After all, we couldn’t be certain the job was sloppy only because the thieves had been in a hurry. Maybe it was due to a lack of training.
I shared my concerns with the detective. “The thief might not be a professional welder. He could be self-taught.”
He grunted. “A few online tutorials and everyone thinks they’re an expert.”
I’d used online tutorials myself. But despite watching three makeup l
essons, I’d yet to master the smoky eye.
Given all the time in the world and no other duties, we could visit every welder in the county. But with limited staff and all of us with other work responsibilities, we had to prioritize. I’d visit several of the schools where welding instruction was offered, and Detective Bustamente would visit the others. Maybe one of the teachers could tell us if anyone in their class was a viable suspect. I’d also visit some of the smaller freelance welding businesses, and anyone who appeared to be working solo.
The detective pushed back from his desk and stood. “Let’s go pay the thief a visit.”
Rising from my seat, I speculated. “I wonder if Danny Landis owns an acetylene torch. He could have learned basic welding from a buddy in prison, right?” After all, he’d expressed an interest in learning the trade.
“Let’s pay him another visit, too,” Bustamente said. “But we need to be careful. We don’t want to get tunnel vision.”
The detective made a valid point. Wrong conclusions could be reached when an investigator focused too much on one potential suspect rather than keeping an open mind. Still, we hadn’t been able to definitively rule Landis out. He could be behind the animal thefts, after all.
The detective grabbed his coat, I rousted my dozing partner, and off we went.
* * *
We parked at the curb in front of the large suburban brick home belonging to the former supervisor at the oil and gas company. In the drive sat a four-wheel-drive Chevy Silverado High Country crew cab pickup in a deep blue color. This model came with heated and cooled seats, and lots of sparkly chrome accents, you know, for tough guys. I peeked in the window as we made our way to the door. Yep, leather interior, too. With its Blu-ray entertainment and Bose sound systems, the truck would’ve set the guy back around sixty grand. The guy had certainly splurged. But pickups were a status symbol among men in the state of Texas. Heck, among women, too.
We made our way up to the porch and knocked. When the man answered, he said nothing, waiting for us to take the lead. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and tucked his hands into his armpits, a smug grin on his face as the scent of his $130-a-bottle Acqua di Giò cologne wafted up my nose.
I looked past the man into the house. On a hook inside the door hung a stylish men’s leather jacket. Beyond that, in the living room, sat a leather couch and a big-screen television nearly as wide as I was tall. It was tuned to a movie on a premium cable channel. My observations told me that, in addition to being arrogant and stupid, this man had expensive tastes and was prone to indulge himself. My guess was that his salary as the welding foreman didn’t provide sufficient funds to keep him in the luxurious manner to which he aspired, hence he’d stolen the equipment for resale.
Bustamente introduced us, not bothering to offer the man a hand. It was just as well. I wouldn’t want to get any of his underarm sweat on me. “We’re aware you were arrested on suspicion of stealing welding equipment.”
“I know my rights,” the man spat. “I don’t have to talk. The First Amendment says so.”
His smug grin grew even smuger. My presumption had been right. This man was both arrogant and stupid. The First Amendment addressed free speech. It was the Fifth Amendment that protected individuals from being forced to incriminate themselves. But no point in giving him a civics lesson.
Undeterred, the detective asked, “We’re wondering if you also took the springbok.”
The man’s face clouded in confusion. “Spring box?” he said, apparently forgetting he didn’t have to talk to us. “What’s that? Some kind of tool?”
“Springbok.” The detective enunciated more clearly this time. “It’s a type of antelope. It was taken from the zoo last night.”
“An antelope?” The man scoffed and raised both his hands and his voice. “What in the world would I want with an antelope?”
“Do you hunt?” I asked.
“Hell, no,” the man said. “I’m not getting up before dawn to cover myself in doe piss and sit in a freezing-cold stand in the woods.”
Another glance over his shoulder told me he was more likely to find his entertainment on the enormous TV in his living room.
Bustamente cut me a look that said, It’s not him.
I cut him one back that said, I don’t think so, either.
“Thanks for your time,” the detective said, to which the man responded by slamming his door in our faces.
“That was fun,” Bustamente said.
“Oodles,” I agreed.
We headed back to my cruiser and, twenty minutes later, pulled up to Danny Landis’s home once again. He was outside, wrangling a long extension ladder from the luggage rack atop his SUV. His wife stood on the lawn nearby, their son on her hip. Danny’s face clouded when he saw my squad car stop at the curb. So did his wife’s. Their son seemed happier to see us. He raised his small hand and waved. The detective and I waved back, offering the little boy smiles as well. His dad might be an ex-con, but that tiny tyke sure is a cutie.
Bustamente levered himself out of the car and addressed Landis. “Let me give you a hand with that ladder.”
While I retrieved Brigit from the back, the detective helped Landis ease the ladder off the vehicle and lean it against the rusty shed out back.
I stepped up next to his wife and gestured at the ladder. “Your husband found work?”
“Guess you could say that.” She shifted the boy to her other hip. “Danny put up flyers and got paid to hang peoples’ Christmas lights. Now that the holidays are over, he’s getting paid to take them down. I don’t much like it. All those rich wives hiring my husband to get up on that tall ladder. They don’t want their own husbands doing it, but it’s okay for my husband to climb up there and maybe break his neck.”
I felt for her. “I wouldn’t like that, either. My boyfriend’s a firefighter and I worry about him all the time.”
She issued a hm that said she felt for me, too. Surprising what people can have in common, huh?
The ladder dispensed with, the men returned to the front yard where Landis turned to us. Unlike the last guy we’d interrogated, he was neither arrogant nor stupid. He was simply uneducated, unskilled, and overburdened.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
Bustamente filled him in. “There’s another animal missing from the zoo. A male springbok.”
No point in trying to keep the animal’s identity a secret this time. The information had already been provided to news outlets and presumably reported on the radio and TV.
“Why are you back here?” Landis demanded. “You looked around last time and didn’t find nothin’.”
Bustamente didn’t beat around the bush. “We’d like to look again.”
Landis stiffened. “You got a search warrant?”
“No,” the detective admitted. He cut me a discreet look. There might not be enough evidence to support a search warrant, especially given that we’d found nothing to incriminate Landis on our earlier visit.
Landis frowned. “Maybe you should go get one. I’m tired of being wrongfully accused, everybody pushing me around all the time.”
“I don’t blame you,” Bustamente said. “But put yourself in our shoes. You were there when the birds went missing and you know your way around the zoo. That makes it seem like you could be the one who took the animals. To be honest, we don’t think there’s much chance you did it, but we’ve got to check out all possible leads. Otherwise, it makes us look bad, like we didn’t do our jobs. I need to work. Like you, I’ve got a family to take care of.”
Landis’s frown loosened a bit, but didn’t entirely disappear. When he spoke, though, he sounded far less convicted. “I still think maybe I should get a lawyer and fight back.”
Rather than threaten Landis, the detective seemed to realize, as had I, that the man only wanted a sense of control over things, some sign of respect. “You could hire a lawyer,” Bustamente acknowledged. “But I’m hoping you’ll work with us on this.
We’re hoping to eliminate you as a suspect. Then we can move on to finding whoever actually took Dinari.”
Landis’s frown melted away entirely, and he gazed wistfully off into the distance, as if picturing Dinari in his mind. “Those animals are pretty. Funny, too. Sometimes they’d get to bouncing around like the broncs at the rodeo.” He turned back to us and cocked his head. “All right. Have at it.” He circled his hand in the air to indicate the house and yard.
Again, we searched his SUV, the house, the attic, and the shed. Again, we found nothing, no welding torch, mask, or other clue pointing to his guilt. And again, we harbored a tiny residual doubt that, nonetheless, Danny Landis could be our guy.
THIRTY-THREE
THIS K-9 DON’T CARE
Brigit
The cat had run and hidden under the bed again, as if it thought Brigit might try to chase it. Sheesh. Felines were such narcissistic creatures. Brigit had much better things to do with her time than pursue a house cat. Didn’t that silly feline realize Brigit was on duty? Probably not. Brigit had seen plenty of dogs with jobs. Guard dogs. Cadaver dogs. Explosive detection dogs like Blast. Other police K-9s, of course. But she’d never once seen an employed cat. What a bunch of mewing moochers.
THIRTY-FOUR
YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME
The Poacher
Christmas was over and the new year had begun, but Vicki had yet to begin her search for work. When he’d asked about it she’d snapped at him. She said she’d liked being a stay-home mom the past few weeks and wasn’t ready to go back to waiting tables. “Besides,” she’d said, “you’re making enough money for us to get by.”
The weight on his shoulders threatened to crush him.
He still hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell Vicki he’d been fired from his welding job at the oil and gas company. Even if he could bring himself to tell her, she’d want to know why and when, and then she’d ask how he got the money he’d handed over to her and how he’d paid for all those nice Christmas presents he’d bought. If he got a new job, he could tell her he’d left the other job voluntarily for a better opportunity. But he hadn’t heard back from any of the jobs he’d applied for, and the cold calls had led nowhere.
