by Diane Kelly
The woman gasped. “That’s not it!” She hunched over the bucket. “Is there anything else in there?”
The man shook his head. “That was all that came out.” After handing the ring to the mall manager, he picked up the P-shaped pipe, retrieved a soft-bristled cleaning brush with a bendable handle, and inserted it into the drain to dislodge anything that might be stuck inside. The brush emerged from the other end having moved nothing along. The pipe was empty.
“No!” the woman cried, putting her hands to her face as her eyes filled with tears. “Where could they be?”
She glanced frantically around, her gaze moving over the countertop and then underneath it as she crouched. She checked the stall she’d used. The maintenance worker and I helped her search to no avail.
“How did the rings fit?” I asked. “Were they loose?”
“I’ve lost a few pounds recently,” she said. “My husband got me a treadmill for Christmas. They weren’t as tight as they used to be, but they weren’t loose enough to just fall off my hand.”
I remembered the lotion the techs had put on our hands when my mother, sister, and I got manicures on New Year’s Day, how slippery it had made our hands. “Did the tech put lotion on your hands?”
“Yes,” she said. “She was very generous with it.”
Seemed the rings could have slipped off afterward while the woman was rifling through a clothing rack, or sorting through smaller items in a bin. “Is it possible they slid off somewhere in the mall while you were shopping?”
She bit her lip at the thought.
“Let’s retrace your steps,” I suggested. “Start with where you were most recently and we’ll work our way back to the nail salon.”
We followed the woman’s path from the bathroom back to the bookstore, and from the bookstore to the shoe section of a department store. We found nothing. No engagement or wedding ring. We ended up back at the nail salon. While I scoured the walkway with my flashlight, the woman went back into the salon and spoke to the technician. Tears streamed down her face as she came back out. Unable to speak, she merely shook her head.
I put a supportive hand on her back. “I’m so sorry,” I told her. “But maybe they’ll turn up. Let’s give the mall management your contact information and a description of the rings. The store managers, too. Maybe someone will find them.”
I made the rounds with her a second time as she provided her name and phone number.
We headed out to the parking lot together. When Brigit and I reached our cruiser, she thanked me for helping her.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I told her.
She issued a mirthless chuckle. “Maybe if I’d crossed my fingers, the rings wouldn’t have come off.” She headed into the parking lot, swiping at a tear as she went.
THIRTY-NINE
LAPS IN JUDGMENT
Brigit
Brigit wasn’t sure why Megan scolded her for lapping water out of the bucket. When humans put a bowl of water on the ground, wasn’t it usually for a dog to drink from? She hadn’t much liked the soapy taste, though. Yuck.
The scolding and soap aside, Brigit hadn’t minded the mall bathroom too much. All it had were sinks and toilets, no tubs. Brigit hated bathtubs. Every time Megan tried to call her into the bathroom at home, she knew it was for a bath. She’d run and hide under the bed. If Megan was going to force her to take a bath, Brigit wasn’t going to make it easy on her. And Megan seemed to always want to give Brigit a bath just when she was smelling her most interesting, right after she’d rolled on a dead squirrel or in some wonderfully foul muck. Maybe if Megan would try rolling on a rodent corpse, she’d realize how good she could smell, too.
FORTY
ENTREPRENEUR
The Poacher
He’d decided to try a new strategy, one he’d heard about from some of the other guys at those classes he’d been taking at night. They’d said anyone could go to the county clerk’s office and sign up to run a business under a made-up name. That way, a person could work under the name of a company rather than his own. You didn’t even have to officially incorporate. The guys said that nobody ever checked up on them when they worked under a business name. The people who hired them assumed that whoever owned the company would have done a background check and that they were vouched for. The secret was not to let people know you owned the business. Of course it was all there in the public records for anyone to check, but nobody ever did.
The thought of hiding behind another identity not only gave him hope, but also gave him a secret little thrill. It would be like being Batman or Superman or, perhaps more appropriately in his case, Iron Man. Nobody knew who they really were, either.
It was just past eight thirty in the morning when he walked into the county clerk’s office and headed straight up to the gray-haired woman at the counter. “I want to register a business.”
She reached under her counter, pulled out a form, and plunked it down in front of him. “Fill this out.” She pointed to a table along the side of the room. “There’s pens over there.”
He stepped over, grabbed a pen, and looked down at the form. It was called an “Assumed Name Certificate.” The first blank asked him to fill in the name under which the business would be conducted. Huh. What name should I use?
He chewed on the end of the pen as he thought. He called out to the woman. “Can I be Iron Man?”
“Don’t think so,” she said. “That name’s probably trademarked.”
Darn. He chewed some more on the pen. Maybe he should try “Skywalker Welding.” When he worked with his torch, he felt like Luke Skywalker wielding a light saber. But that name was probably trademarked, too.
“Torch for Hire?” No, that sounded like he was offering to burn places down for money. The last thing he needed was to be suspected of arson.
“AAA Welding”? He’d once heard that it was good to go with a name that started with a so you’d be first in the phone book. Then again, nobody used a phone book anymore. The Internet didn’t display listings alphabetically, so there was no point in going with such a boring name. Besides, the name had probably already been taken by a business formed back in the day when people still used the Yellow Pages.
What about “King Midas Metalworks”? Yeah. That’s the one. Everything King Midas touched turned into gold. Anything the Poacher touched seemed to turn into shit. Maybe the name would turn things around for him. He put the pen to paper and wrote KING MIDAS METALWORKS in the space.
The next blank asked for the business address. He wrote down the address for the garage he’d rented. He wasn’t sure how long he’d stay there, though. The place was cold and drafty, the pipes squealed every time he used the bathroom, and the ventilation in the bay sucked. But he’d already plunked down rent for the month, plus the deposit, and he’d sunk a little money and a day’s worth of time into sprucing the place up. He’d stick it out until he could afford something better.
When he finished filling out the form, he handed it to the clerk along with a twenty-dollar bill to cover the filing fee. After, he drove to one of those storefront business centers and ordered a box of basic business cards. He grabbed a burger at the place next door while the cards were printing.
He wasn’t sure it was worth the cost to set up a Web site, but he could make a Facebook page for King Midas Metalworks for free. He drove to the closest public library branch and spent some time setting the page up. He found a free image of a king online and posted the picture to the page. He made up some reviews, too.
“You can count on King Midas Metalworks!”
“Their workers do a good job at a fair price.”
“Best in the business!”
That last one was definitely a stretch. He’d only learned to weld a few months ago, in prison. Other than a few days at the oil company, cutting some air holes in the top of that secondhand trailer he’d bought, and the quick and messy jobs he’d done on those gates at the zoo, he had little actual experience. But he�
��d take his time and make sure he did a good job for anyone who hired him.
He set up an e-mail account for the business, and sent messages to local drilling companies, fabrication businesses, and auto body shops to let them know King Midas Metalworks had welders available on short notice for temporary assignments. Of course he’d already contacted the same places, but they hadn’t given him the time of day as an individual. Maybe they’d take him more seriously now that he had a business name. He included his cell phone number in the e-mail. He even took a chance and called one of his former coworkers at the oil company to ask whether he had any contacts who might need a welder on a short-term basis. “I’m with this new company,” the Poacher said. “King Midas Metalworks.”
“Never heard of it.”
Of course he hadn’t. It had only been in business for five hours. “The owner would be impressed if I could bring in some work for us.”
“Don’t know nobody who’s looking to hire,” the guy said. “If things change, I’ll be in touch. But you won’t believe this. The boss man? He got fired for stealing equipment.”
The Poacher’s blood froze. He’d been terminated after equipment turned up missing, equipment he hadn’t taken. His supervisor had blamed him, made him the scapegoat. Because the Poacher had been fired, he’d been forced to go to work at that Christmas tree lot, to steal those animals from the zoo, to break his little girl’s heart and see her cry. And now it turned out it was the boss himself who’d taken the tools? Motherfu—
“You still there?” the other guy asked.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” the Poacher replied, gritting his teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crumble.
“Police came and hauled him away in handcuffs.” The man hooted with laughter. “You shoulda seen it!”
“Wish I had.” He wished that prick who’d framed him would do some time behind bars, too.
When they ended the call, the Poacher called the human resources department at the oil and gas company to see about getting his job back. “I shouldn’t have been fired,” he told the woman. “My supervisor stole the equipment, not me.”
“Sorry,” she said. “We’ve already filled your position. But we’ll keep you in mind if we have another opening.”
A lot of good that would do him. He needed a job now.
Disgusted, the Poacher went about his business, or went about trying to drum up some business, anyway. He also bought a few pieces of sheet metal and other supplies. Until something turned up, looked like he’d be cutting out stars. While he was at it, he might as well make a sign for his place, too.
FORTY-ONE
DEAD ENDS
Megan
By the end of the week, we realized we were once again at a dead end. The traffic cameras had been little help. While the cameras at the gas station were protected by the cover over the pumps, the light fog that had seeped into the area on New Year’s Eve had left condensation on the unprotected lenses of the traffic cameras. Between the water droplets and the cloudy air, all the highway cameras picked up were blurry images of vehicles. The white trailer appeared to be attached to a large, dark vehicle, most likely an SUV judging from the rectangular shape. But we couldn’t be sure. Heck, we still didn’t even know if the vehicle had anything to do with the disappearance of the springbok. It felt as if we’d become so desperate for a break in the case that we were grasping at straws.
Two more weeks passed, and we reached late January with no forward movement. Despite having wallpapered the city with flyers about the missing animals, no one had called in with a fruitful tip. There’d been plenty of fruitless tips, however. A purported sighting of Sarki in Forest Park that turned out to be a skunk. A report of Dinari in a pasture north of the city. I’d raced up there only to find a white-tailed deer with unusually straight antlers. Someone had reported a possible sighting of a hyacinth macaw, too, but it turned out to be a blue-and-gold macaw that had escaped its home when the owner’s child neglected to fully close their patio door. At least we’d been able to return the bird to its home before a cat went after it or it starved to death.
The most frustrating thing about serial crimes is that when the crimes ceased for any significant length of time, law enforcement had no way of knowing if the criminal had decided to stop his behavior or was merely lying in wait, biding his time until everyone lowered their guard before striking again. Sometimes, the perpetrator moved on to commit crimes elsewhere. Other times, the lawbreaker disappeared into thin air. Jack the Ripper had never been caught. Neither had the Zodiac Killer. Of course we weren’t dealing with a murderer here, but the animal thefts were nonetheless a serious crime.
It was a blustery Wednesday afternoon and a motorist was in the middle of a misogynistic rant, cursing me out for writing him a speeding ticket, when Detective Bustamente called my cell. Too bad I can’t write this guy a ticket for being an ass.
A vein pulsed in the man’s forehead as his hands strangled his steering wheel. “You think you’ve got something to prove ’cause you’re a woman and I’m a man, don’t you? You’ve got penis envy! You—”
I raised a finger to silence the driver. “Hold that thought. I need to take this.” And, by the way, I’m very happy with my lady parts, thank you very much.
Keeping a close eye on the jerk, I accepted the call. “Hello, Det—”
It was my turn to be interrupted. “Get to the station pronto. We got a new tip. It sounds legit. We may have located the springbok.”
Finally! A break! Sometimes you have to go looking for clues. Other times clues come looking for you. “I’ll be right there.”
I scribbled the rest of the citation as quickly as possible and handed it to the man. “Drive safely, sir.” And kiss my lady butt, too.
I hopped back in my cruiser, gunned my engine, and swerved around the idiot’s car just as he went to pull out. He jammed on his horn. HOOOONK! I flipped the switch on my dash and gave him a WOO-WOO right back.
At the station, I leaped from my car, retrieved Brigit, and sprinted inside, dashing to the detective’s office. “This is great news! Where’s the springbok? Are Sarki and the birds with it?”
His face was somber. Uh-oh. He gestured to a chair. “Take a seat, Officer Luz,” he said softly, his voice resigned.
I hesitated, as if continuing to stand could somehow make the bad news he was about to deliver go away. But eventually I lowered myself into a chair. Brigit lowered herself to a sit at my feet.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this,” he said, “but the springbok is dead. It was shot by a hunter and taken to a taxidermist for mounting.”
“No!” My hands gripped the armrests so tightly it was a wonder I didn’t break a nail. This scenario is exactly what we’d feared. God help those Poachers when I find them. I’d show them as much mercy as they showed Dinari.
“The taxidermist is in Glen Rose.” Bustamente rose from his chair. “Let’s go.”
We hopped into my cruiser and set out.
Glen Rose was a small town in Somervell County, with a population of less than three thousand. The town was mostly known for its Dinosaur Valley State Park, a natural area along the Paluxy River. Way back, dinosaurs had left footprints in the mud around an ancient ocean. The ocean had long since receded, but a river and the dinosaur tracks remained. Also in Glen Rose sat the Creation Evidence Museum, complete with a replica Noah’s Ark and a hyperbaric biosphere intended to simulate atmospheric conditions that existed on earth prior to the time God flooded it. Notably, and perhaps ironically, the museum was established and directed by Carl Baugh, a researcher who’d led the excavation of numerous dinosaurs, including the Acrocanthosaurus in Texas and Diplodocus in Colorado. Baugh and his team uncovered a number of dinosaur tracks in the area. He’d proposed a number of possible creation models, taking science into account. Of course his exhibits and findings were not without controversy. Some questioned the authenticity of the “Burdick Track,” a purportedly human footprint found among t
he dinosaur tracks in a tributary of the Paluxy. The unusual length of the foot would be commensurate with a human around seven feet tall. The museum also featured what was allegedly a fossilized finger, though some decried it as a fake. The ages-old debate on creation versus evolution was alive and well in these parts.
The taxidermist operated out of a prefab metal building along a county road directly west of downtown Glen Rose. As we pulled up to the place, we were greeted by the bared fangs of a mountain lion that appeared ready to spring from its log base and rip us to shreds, if only it were still alive.
We exited the car onto the gravel drive, our feet and Brigit’s paw sending up small poofs of dust as they hit the surface. Brigit took one look at the puma and launched into a growl, her fur bristling along her back.
“Don’t worry, girl,” I told her. “That cat’s harmless.”
She approached it cautiously, her ears back, before seeming to realize it was immobilized and lifeless. She gave it a thorough sniff before we proceeded inside. The bells on the door jingled as it swung closed behind us.
We found ourselves in a foyer of horror. Skins spanned the wall, the heads of their bearers still attached, some with mouths open as if crying for help. A huge moose mounted on a board sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, looking up at us with his one glass eye. With the other eye missing, he appeared to be winking. An owl mounted on a tree limb stared our way, looking perennially perplexed as to how he’d ended up in this situation.
A tall, skinny man with wild salt-and-pepper hair and an unkempt beard came through an open door at the back of the foyer. He wore an untucked flannel shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed boots. He took one look at my uniform and said, “You must be the folks from Fort Worth.”
Bustamente nodded and held out his hand, introducing himself. I did the same. Brigit followed suit. He bent down to address her. “Aren’t you a pretty girl?”
Brigit wagged her tail to let the man know she wholeheartedly agreed with his assessment.
