by Jack Wallen
The doctor took a look at the bag and held up a hand to it. “May I?” I handed it to him.
“This is a prescription I would have given to any number of the horse farms in town,” the doctor said. “The prescription number is still on the bottle, which means I can tell you who it was prescribed to.”
“Would you retrieve that information for me, please?” I asked politely.
“Certainly.” The doctor went behind the divider and sat at the receptionist’s computer.
“We keep very good records here, dated back to our first patient.” He tapped away on the keyboard for a moment. After a few hmmmms and yeses, he finally looked up. “I’m printing the prescription record for you. You wouldn’t be able to read my writing,” he joked. “I’ve not done anything wrong, have I?” He said as he handed me the printout.
I took the printout and looked seriously at him. “I certainly hope not.” I think I shocked him. Sometimes it’s necessary to use little scare tactics to ensure you get the information you need. “Can I ask you a few questions about this prescription?” His nod was as much in fear as it was in compliance.
“First of all, is this tranquilizer common in the horse industry?” I was trying not to sound too hard with my questions, but I wanted to make sure the man knew that this was serious business.
My tactic worked. “Oh, yes. Xylazine is widely administered to horses when performing diagnostic and surgical procedures. In lower dosages, it acts as a relaxant to aid in handling or for injury therapy. For surgical procedures, a local anesthesia must be used as well.”
I knew from the lab results that Lakmé wasn’t using anything other than xylazine. “What would happen if a local wasn’t used in conjunction with xylazine during surgery?”
“Well, the patient’s body could go into shock, and if left in that state long enough, the patient could die.”
“Do you know anything about,” I looked down at the printout and read, “Lowell and Vera Hartfield?”
“Yes. They own one of the largest boarding stables in Louisville. They specialize in dressage, a training method, but also house a few thoroughbreds. I board my own horse there.” He said proudly, as if he wanted to go off on details of his horse.
“What are the Hartfields like?”
“Infectiously positive and happy people. They love horses and are the kindest couple I’ve ever known. They do everything they can to ensure the horses have the best of care. Their stable is immaculate, their hired help efficient….”
Something clicked, and I interrupted the doctor. “Describe the hired help for me.”
“Well, as far as I know, there are seven, three couples and one single guy. All of the help live on the grounds in either trailers or small carriage houses. Two of the couples tend the stalls. Both are young and students at U of L School of Veterinary Medicine. The third couple takes care of the feeding. The single guy is the caretaker of the grounds. I don’t know him very well. He does an outstanding job but keeps to himself.” He spoke like he was trying to sell me the farm.
“Can you describe the caretaker?” I asked, with my breath stuck in my throat.
“I don’t get the chance to see too much of him, but I know he’s a big man, not fat, but muscular. Very strong. He’s probably around six feet tall, has long brown hair….” The doctor paused for a moment, looking thoughtful.
“Does he live on the grounds as well?”
“Yes. He lives in one of the older trailers. From what I understand, he’s lived there for a long time, but I don’t know for sure if he’s always been their groundskeeper. Unfortunately, that’s all I know about him. I’m sure the Hartfields would be more than happy to help you out.”
“Thank you for your help. I may need more assistance from you. If so, I assume I can reach you here?” I doubted I would need him again, but anything was possible.
He agreed that we could contact him, and we left the office. The Hartfields’ address on the printout was simple to locate, and the drive would only take us about thirty minutes.
FORTY-FIVE
We arrived at the Hartfield stable at six-thirty. It was getting dark, and an unusual chill was starting to spread, as if autumn had decided summer was unnecessary.
The stable was large and well lit. Two small carriage houses stood sentinel to the immediate left of the barn, and behind that were two trailers. Behind the barn was a fenced-in field where two horses grazed. Beyond was another field that housed a single lonely cow.
I scanned the trailers from the distance. Neither trailer had any discernible marks of youth, and only one seemed even remotely well kept. The other trailer had either been abandoned, or the occupant lived completely unaware of the chaos that was eroding the order of the home.
A young couple, apparently dressed to get dirty, emerged from the first trailer. Skip and I got out of the car and set out on an intercept course for the young man and woman.
“Excuse me!” I called out, picking up my pace. “Can you tell me where to find Lowell or Vera Hartfield?” The young couple bounced along and led us into the barn.
“Yeah, no prob,” the young man said happily.
Inside the barn, there were maybe fifty stalls, each with a lively horse that seemed to grow even livelier when the four of us entered.
“Must be feeding time,” I jokingly said to the young lady.
“Did the horses with the forks and knives give it away?” The girl laughed at her attempted humor. “Yes, that’s what we’re here for.” She pointed toward the center of the barn. “The lady standing in the ring is Vera.” With that, she headed off in another direction.
I turned to say something to Skip, but he had wandered off to one of the stalls. He was rubbing a big pink and white nose sticking out of a stall. A plaque on the stall door read ‘Weiser.’ I walked over to stand next to Skip and watched the two enjoy their playtime. The horse was larger than the rest but had the friendliest face. Skip was blowing into the horse’s nose, and the horse snorted back.
“This is great! God, I love horses.” Skip had a child’s twinkle in his eyes. “I always wanted to ride.”
I gave him a look.
“Horses, you hag!” Skip elbowed me. “Well, not just horses, well, I mean they could be—”
I shook my head and walked off toward the center ring. Vera Hartfield was calling out what I assumed to be maneuvers for a woman riding a beautiful, sleek brown horse. Every time Mrs. Hartfield called out something new, the woman and horse would suddenly change the step, approach, or style. It was stunning to watch; the relationship between horse and rider was so refined and elegant. I couldn’t even see the rider cueing the horse. It was as if the horse was reading the rider’s mind.
“Figure eight!” Vera called out, and the horse began gracefully moving in the familiar circles. After two figure eights, Vera called out, “Three-loop serpentine!” The horse began what seemed to be a very simple maneuver, until I realized the loops creating the serpentine were perfectly symmetrical.
Without thinking, I started clapping, which brought me the attention of Mrs. Hartfield.
“Excuse me, but we’re in the middle of a training session. I prefer to not be interrupted.” Her voice was hard. I didn’t want to have to use the badge, but we really didn’t have the luxury of waiting until class was over.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hartfield, but I’m Officer Davenport, and this is Officer Abrahm. I need to ask you some questions about one of your hired hands.” She looked at me with a tinge of concern in her face. It was obvious she had no idea what I was talking about. God, I hoped things wouldn’t get ugly.
“Brandi, go ahead and practice your twenties and thirties, as well as your canter.” The young rider complied, and Mrs. Hartfield walked out of the ring and stopped in front of me.
“I’m sorry I was so abrupt. She has an event coming up this weekend, and she has a ways to go before she’s ready. Horse AND rider.” She smiled a warm smile, which melted away the tension.
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“Why don’t we go to my office? It’s warm, private, and has some pretty good coffee, if you like.” Invitation accepted.
She left the office door standing open behind us, poured three mugs of coffee and sat behind a metal desk. “What can I help you with?”
I looked at Skip for a moment. He nodded to me, as if to say You go, girl! in that way that only a gay man can get away with. I turned back to Mrs. Hartfield and said, “We want to talk to you about your hired hand.”
“Which one? I have six of them.” She leaned back in her chair.
“I don’t have a name. But he’s a large, single man.”
“You mean Chris Davies. What do you need to know about him?” She was holding her mug with both hands and sipping her coffee, such a feminine pose for someone who came off so brusque.
What did we want to know? Was he a killer? Does he have a hatred for cross-dressers? I could come up with a hundred questions, but none of them steered anywhere near the realm of standard questioning procedure.
“How long has he worked for you?” I opted for the pedestrian.
“Well, he had worked for us for nearly twenty years, but about two months ago, he disappeared. No notice, no forwarding address, he just left. I haven’t heard from him since.” This didn’t come as too much of a surprise.
“What can you tell me about him?” I figured I’d continue with the generic questions first.
“Not much, other than about his work habits, which were outstanding. He never complained; hell, he hardly ever spoke. He never asked for anything and kept completely to himself.” I was watching for any indication that she might be keeping information from me. I saw none.
“Did you ever notice any strange behavior?” It was time to start asking the real questions.
She thought for a moment. I was actually surprised. If this was our man, I would have thought him full of odd behaviors. “Well, he never got any mail. Never. Not a single piece. I’ve never known anyone to not receive mail.”
‘Unless the system didn’t know they existed‘, I thought.
“Except when he was working, he rarely came out of his trailer, not until the last month he was here. At that point, he was leaving at night and, I believe, coming in pretty late. But he never stopped doing his work.” She stopped to think again. “The only other thing I can think of is that when he left, he left behind a trailer full of possessions.”
That piqued my curiosity. I looked over at Skip, who was still watching through the open door. With the owner’s consent, I could legally search the trailer—even without the occupant being present.
“I don’t suppose you would mind if I examined his trailer?”
The corners of Vera’s mouth sunk. She shook her head and raised her shoulders. I thought for sure she was going to throw the request back in my face. “I don’t see why not. You’re lucky; we’ve been so busy with the upcoming Equitana, we’ve not had any time to deal with cleaning out the trailer. You’re more than welcome to look around. I have a spare key in my desk.”
She pulled out a key from one of the drawers and laid it on the desk. “Here ya go.”
I picked up the key and nodded my thanks.
“I think that’s all the questions I have for now. I’ll try not to interrupt your work again. Thank you so much.” I stood.
“Anytime I can help. Please don’t hesitate to interrupt. I’m sure your work is more important than mine. And you can feel free to question the other hands. They’re all very friendly, and I’m sure they would be willing to help out.” She stood and crossed to the office door. “And when you’re done with the key, just leave it on my desk.”
I looked at Skip who gestured to the door. “After you, my queen.”
In turn, I gestured to the door. “No, after you, my princess.” Skip lifted his chin and gave a little snort. “Naturally, my subject.” I smacked him on the ass as he walked by. “Tramp,” he whispered.
“You love it,” I whispered back.
“You know it,” he tossed over his shoulder. “By the way, you handled that questioning perfectly,” Skip added.
We made our way to the trailer. Although hideous, it looked like an ordinary trailer from our perspective. There was nothing that screamed, ‘A serial killer lives here.’ There were no pails of pig blood, no severed arms, no hanging baby dolls, and no effigies to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The trailer was just an old, blue home-on-wheels that had seen better days.
I used the key and opened the door, which made a creaking noise. The blast of putrid air that came out was ripe, and the darkness was uninviting. I pulled out my flashlight and let it slice through the black room, expecting some shadow creature, a man-bat or sideshow freak, to jump out at us in an attempt to escape back to his master.
I tried the nearest light, but nothing happened. Either the electric bill had not been paid, or the light bulbs hadn’t been changed. We’d be cutting the darkness with our light sabers.
It looked as if someone had turned the trailer on its roof and then back on its wheels. Either that or the place had been decorated by Jackson Pollock. Papers were scattered everywhere. Milk cartons littered the floor. Furniture was torn and stained. One section of the floor was rotted through to reveal the underpinning. A stain that could be blood surrounded the hole.
I prepared myself for what I might find in the rotting floor vault. The smell was already assaulting my nose, threatening to bring the contents of my stomach up to meet my shoes. Homicide class instructors always warned students that one day they’d be faced with a smell that would make them reconsider the field. The current odor could be that smell. Shining my light into the hole, I saw what I thought to be rotting flesh.
“Skip! Over here.” I was fighting back bile in order to speak. “What do you make of this?” I pointed at the hole. Skip looked down and immediately turned and ran out the door. I could hear him retching outside. I decided to join Skip in the fresh air.
“I’m going to get some masks. We have to find out what that is under the floor. God, this is sick,” I said as I walked by my bent-over partner.
I grabbed masks, gloves, and bags from the trunk. When I came back to the trailer, I stopped and handed Skip his share of the equipment.
“Are you okay, Skip? I know this is not what either of us would like to be doing right now.” The mask fit snugly around my face. “But we don’t have a choice. Come on, Skipper, you can do it.”
We went back into the hotbox and lit up the hole with our lights.
“What the hell?” Skip asked rhetorically.
“I’m almost afraid to know, Skip. But it looks like whatever is down there didn’t go peacefully.” I was trying to make light of the situation; it wasn’t working.
What we were looking at was the remains of something—of many somethings—that obviously didn’t die under the floor. Whatever was down there had been put down there in pieces.
“I can’t tell if these are human remains or not,” Skip said, as he stepped closer to the opening. “Can you hand me a stick or something?” Skip was acting far braver than I.
I searched and found a broken baseball bat. There was still a good two-and-a-half feet of wood to poke around with, and the pointy end would make it easier to shift the remains.
Skip took the bat and gave me a sort of what in the Sam Scratch am I doing? look. He reached down and started moving pieces around. I could hear the sticky sounds of the skin and meat pulling apart and dropping from the wood. I wanted to run as far away as I could. Thinking that Skip could be poking around in what used to be a man, or woman, sent me packing to queasy-ville.
After a little while of prodding, Skip finally came back with at least a bit of good news. “I don’t believe it’s human. I think I saw strips of fur and dog-sized teeth. I think we’ve found his very own pet cemetery.
We stared at each other in relief. But we still had an entire trailer to search. God only knew what else we’d find in its belly.
“I’m going
to check out the back end of this hell house. You finish up this room.” I left Skip with his bat and headed back to the far end. I was half afraid of what I was going to find, but felt confident it couldn’t top the hole-of-meat in the front room.
The back of the trailer was hotter and darker than the front. The rear section consisted of a long hallway with two doors on either side. All four doors were closed. I approached the first set of doors, one on the right and one on the left, and decided to start with the left one. I took in a deep breath and prepared myself for the worst. I turned the door handle and slowly swung open the door. My flashlight beam illuminated a laundry room filled with the most amazing piles of clothing. I counted at least six piles that were each at least three feet high. I looked through the piles, half afraid I was going to find a dead body, and noticed that all of the clothing seemed to be of the woman’s variety and of nearly every possible style.
The first thought that hit me was to wonder if these could all be the clothes of his victims. Had he managed to get their entire wardrobes from their houses? It occurred to me to check the sizes of the clothing. If all the sizes were different, even matching those of the victims, my hunch could be dead on.
My hunch wasn’t exactly shot down, but it wasn’t proven, either. Nearly all of the tops were marked XXL, and all the bottoms were either XL or size 16 or 18. The clothes could fit a large woman or medium-large man. My new guess was that the last resident of this trailer, one Chris Davies, sported the various looks in these piles.
Chalk one up for the detective for finding a possible connection between the killer and the cross-dressing scene.
I exited the room and walked across the hall to the opposite door. The handle turned, and the door squealed open like it was straight out of a Vincent Price movie. God, this part of the job aged me twenty years. I could feel new wrinkles developing on my face as the door came to a halt.
The room was nothing more than a storage room. Granted, given the situation, it was more like looking through the storage room of Hannibal Lecter than your average Joe. For one thing, there were flies buzzing around, lots of them. I attributed them to the meat hole we had just stirred up. There was also a haze hanging in the air which added to the Halloween-like effect.
