Hair of the Dog

by Susan Slater

  “Did you feel you were taking a chance?”

  Daisy uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, “Because of the state of racing today?” Dan nodded. “I didn’t, but my friends did; so did my parents. Greyhound racing does face a somewhat precarious future. None of us knows how much longer we’ll be around. I’ve taken a lot of guff for getting in on the downslide. But today, this is one of the few tracks running in the black.”

  “You make me think that wasn’t always so.” Had he hit a sore-spot? Dixie hesitated and raked sharp, white teeth over her bottom lip. Stalling. Trying to decide how much or even what to say?”

  “We’ve struggled. I won’t say that we haven’t, but our position is unique. Most tracks offer casinos the chance to piggyback on their dog racing gaming permits. It’s a lot easier to open and maintain a casino if it’s built around dog-racing. It’s this combination of live dog racing, closed-circuit games or simulcast horse races that keeps the public coming back. I just don’t know for how long. If you throw in the bad press—drugs, dogs injured and even killed—more tracks have closed in the last few years than are still open. But I see a bright future—maybe not as glorious as the one past, but the world will always produce gamblers, Mr. Mahoney. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Dan nodded. Yeah, there would always be those who would put down a little money in hopes of making more of it. But the cost of running a place like this—the restaurant, the kennels, a vet—all this could get to be prohibitive without a healthy group of repeat bettors, and just how many of those could there be in Daytona Beach, Florida? But maybe there were other related businesses. “Is training a big part of the track’s revenue?”

  “Not like it used to be. Not too long ago we would have had dozens of dogs in training and a full roster of trainers.”

  “And today?”

  “Maybe three full-time trainers use the track. The number of youngsters getting their start here has dwindled to under twenty.”

  “I understand you’ve been active with the…” Dan checked his notes, “Grey2K people—the group who wants to close all tracks—you’ve helped them draw up a plan to change the face of the sport?”

  “I’ve done what I can. Mostly I’ve listened. I’ve offered my services pro bono because I’d be the first to say in a number of instances they’ve had a point. The sport has needed to be cleaned up—greed and live animals are not a good mix.”

  “I would agree with you.” Wasn’t greed the motivator of almost every case he’d ever worked? He wouldn’t expect it to be any different with live animals. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask if all five of your dogs were housed with the others? I think some fifty dogs total?”

  “Yes and no. They were kept in the kennel area but their crates were not mixed in with the others.”

  “How were their crates separated? On an opposite wall? Next to, or at the end of a row of crates?”

  “Actually on a wall adjacent to the door.”

  “Were there other handlers in the area? Other than Mr. Crumm, that is.”

  “Not Tuesday evening.”

  “What about maintenance people—this Fred Manson, for example?”

  “Fred was out of here by five-thirty.”

  “I understand there are night races. Wasn’t this early for him to leave?”

  “Not at all. Fred has a crew that does track upkeep for the late races. No need for him to stick around. On the other hand, Fucher often worked late—and just as often worked another handler’s night shift. We’ve never thought we had to have more than one person overseeing the kennel at night, especially when there was a reduced number of animals. Usually we house one hundred and twenty dogs—sometimes more—and that necessitates more than one handler.”

  “I can imagine the feeding alone, even of fifty dogs, would be far too much for one person.”

  “Yes, although it’s not as daunting as it sounds. There’s a routine, of course, for handler and dogs. Fifty dogs can be checked and fed within an hour. After eating and exercise, the dogs settle down quickly.”

  “So you obviously trusted Mr. Crumm?”

  “What am I supposed to say to that? I did trust him. He’s handicapped, but he’s been with the track for years. It’s only been recently that there’s been any trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Oh, I hate to be the one tattling but over the past year, Fucher seemed paranoid—pugnacious, even. Thought people were out for his job. On one occasion he pushed a young trainer into a fence and squirted him with a water hose just for correcting him. Fucher thought the young man was trying to get him in trouble. I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it attests to his deteriorating state of mind. I think when he lost his mother, he just unraveled.”

  “That would have been around Christmas time?”

  “Yes. He started to forget things. There was a mix-up with medications and one dog almost died.”

  “A dog belonging to Mr. Jackson Sanchez?”

  “Yes. Jackson reported it to me and the racing commission. In fact, he was very vocal—told anyone who would listen. He requested that handicapped individuals not be entrusted with dogs.”

  “Do you employ more than one special needs individual here at the track?”

  “No, no we don’t. We’ve been pressed to expand our hiring to include educable individuals who could be trained to care for the dogs and to offer the training here at the track through Daytona State College. Several of the kennel owners objected and the idea just sort of faded away. I think the college was disappointed—saw some federal funds evaporate. You can imagine how saying no was received—in this day of ‘give everyone a chance.’ Don’t misunderstand, I’m all for offering gainful employment to those less fortunate, but, still, how far can we go if our dogs are put in danger?”

  “Were you planning on firing Mr. Crumm?” He thought Dixie looked surprised, or maybe it was the extra moment of hesitation; but he thought she paused to gain composure…and to think how to phrase the answer.

  “I talked with Fucher very sternly. I wanted him to understand the gravity of the situation.”

  “Translate ‘very sternly’ for me. Were threats of firing made?”

  Again, she didn’t answer at once. There was some smoothing of her skirt and studying the floor. Theatrics? Dan wasn’t certain. “I didn’t threaten him but Jackson did.”

  “Did you overhear this?”

  “Well, no, but Jackson admitted it. And at least one of the trainers witnessed it. It was not done with my approval.”

  “Do you think this threat was enough to push Fucher into an act of murder?”

  “In the past I would have said no, but after this last year, I have to say there’s nothing that I can point to that exonerates him.”

  “Would he have a job here if he were to get out on bail?”

  “I certainly don’t see that happening.”

  “Having a job here or getting out on bail?” Did lawyers study how to be vague or confusing? He guessed he knew the answer to that.

  Again, that pregnant pause and some fidgeting with her skirt. “Neither, I guess.”

  Now it was Dan’s turn to wait for more explanation but none seemed to be forthcoming. Time to change the subject. “I’d like you to take a moment and go over this list of what was lost in the fire. Make any corrections or additions. I’ll pick it up from your assistant later. If you have pictures—more recent than we might have on file of both the artwork and the dogs—I’d appreciate those. In the meantime I’d like to tour the kennel.”

  Dixie picked up the phone. A couple calls and a young woman knocked at the door. Dixie introduced her as Melody Paget, a track trainer. “I’m leaving you in really good hands. Mel is one of our best. Stop by on your way out—the list will be ready.”

  ***

  “It’s a real mess out here.” Melody was pickin
g her way around piles of debris stacked outside the door to the building that housed the office, kennels, and several prep rooms. The acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air. Dan did a quick inventory—an overstuffed couch with two matching chairs water-soaked and barely recognizable, a charred heavy wooden desk and metal chair, a couple file cabinets, and a metal frame half melted that could have been from a cot, Dan thought. Not a lot.

  “Is this everything from the office?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Firemen gave orders for it to be dragged outside—didn’t want any flare-ups.”

  “Why don’t we go see what’s left inside?” Dan couldn’t see anything that needed his attention out here.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s just a charred, soggy mess.”

  And she wasn’t kidding. The building was cement block so this wing was still standing, but that was about all. Window casings had melted away, doors had disappeared, a large molten lump just inside the door had probably been a file cabinet. A couple of slender twisted pieces of metal resting against the wall suggested a picture frame. Must have been something poster-sized. He stepped into the room.

  Dan’s shoes squished as he walked and after taking about a half dozen steps forward, there didn’t seem to be any point in going further. It must have been a hot fire which right up front suggested arson. He dragged out his trusty Nikon and snapped pictures—floor, ceiling, windows or lack thereof, doorway leading to the hall—this was more perfunctory than noticing something suspect. Soot, water stains, and charred wood supports obscured possible clues. It looked like arson and everyone supposed it was, but he made a mental note to check with the Volusia County FD and walked back through the door.

  He paused in the hallway to record his notes. A dictaphone app…who could have guessed at how quickly technology would progress. But he wasn’t complaining, the saved time was a boon. He turned slowly, pausing at each potential point of interest, and voiced his comments watching them miraculously pop up in print. Would he be giving away his age if he admitted to how impressed he always was by this technology? Yeah, probably.

  “Ready to take a look at the kennels?” Melody had been standing quietly beside the doorway.

  “Sure.” He slipped the mini iPad into his briefcase and started to follow. “What the…?” He’d obviously stepped on something. He leaned against an outer wall, slipped off his right loafer and checked the crepe sole. Wedged into the rubbery grooves on the base of the shoe was a small die—the number 9.

  “Any idea what this is?” He held out the blackened number in the palm of his hand.

  “Part of an old tattoo kit. All racing greyhounds have tattoos.”

  Dan tried to get his mind around every dog having a heart on its chest with maybe MOM or a flag in the middle. “I don’t think I’m following you.”

  “Oh, sorry, every dog has an identifying tattoo—one in each ear. In the right ear is the NGA registration number. That’s National Greyhound Association. In the left you’ll find a combination of letters and numbers. The first is a digit depicting month of birth, second digit is the year, and the third die is a letter which tells you what litter order the dog was tattooed in.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Well, the five numbers in the right ear are self-explanatory. It’s the left ear that gets tricky. If you have an 119B, the dog was born in November of 2009 and was the second dog in the litter to be tattooed. There will never be more than three numbers and a single letter in the left ear. Try this one: 88C.”

  “August of 2008 and the third dog in a particular litter to be tattooed.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Would tattoo kits have been kept in the office?”

  “Not really. I don’t know why any would even be at the track. The kennel owners tattoo their dogs long before we see them here. All a part of puppy preparedness. And the tattoos are usually done with a pretty sophisticated kit—or a pen nowadays if you have the money. That’s the old-fashioned way.” She pointed to the number 9 in his palm then bent forward for a better look. “Boy, this is from a really old set. It’s some sort of pot metal, not even cast aluminum.”

  Dan turned the relic over. It appeared to be made of lead. He knew Melody was right; he doubted that this material was used anymore. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.

  “Guess the kennel is next?” He fell in beside Melody and noted that the closer they got to the kennel area, the fewer the signs of a fire. Walls were still coated with a scummy gray over yellow utility paint, but other than evidence of water damage along the floor—ceramic tiles were broken and popping up—the kennel area had missed the brunt of a very hot fire.

  “Where would the five dogs have been crated?”

  “Right here by the door.”

  Dan stepped into the room and looked at row after row of large crates. Three deep, they covered every wall. And they weren’t small but long enough and tall enough to allow even the biggest greyhound to move around comfortably.

  “Where is this turn-out area—the place where most of the dogs were found?”

  “Right across the hall. Fucher did an heroic job of corralling forty-five dogs and getting them to safety.”

  “Weren’t some found in the hallway?”

  “Only three.”

  “Any idea why they were separated from the rest?”

  “Probably the last to leave their crates. One, I know for sure, was housed on the back wall—a young dog who may have been at the track only a couple times before. He would have been disoriented. I don’t know about the others.”

  That made sense. Dan made a couple of notes. “I’m still not sure I understand how five dogs were lost.”

  “You’re not alone.” Melody’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They were the closest to the smoke and Fucher says they just disappeared—he kept saying that he looked for them and they just weren’t there. I think he was busy with all the others and he lost track of them. But why they’d head toward the fire and not away from it…well, goes without saying, that’s a puzzle.”

  “What with the fire and the noise and the utter panic…it would be easy to become disoriented—even for a dog, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe, but their instincts are stronger than humans’—danger signs are built into their DNA. But it makes Fucher sound guilty. Like he didn’t do enough—even with forty-five saved.”

  “Do you know how the dogs died?”

  “Smoke inhalation, I think. They were only inches from safety, frantically trying to get out the side door.”

  Dan made a note to see if the track vet corroborated the story. “I guess I’m wondering why all five stayed together, didn’t split up, follow the other dogs across the hall to safety.”

  “They were raised together, housed together—one of the dogs was a pretty dominant male—they probably just followed the wrong leader.”

  Dan stepped across the hall and opened the doors to the exercise area. The doors were in pretty good shape, some rubber insulation crinkled from heat but otherwise intact. The area was about four hundred square feet in size. He tried to imagine forty-five dogs in the space. Probably every one reacting to the smoke and fire—jumping around, howling, picking fights…how could anyone stay calm in that situation? He had new respect for Fucher.

  “Anything else I should see?”

  “I was going to point out the exits. The chain-link gate there leads to the track and that one,” she pointed to her right, “goes to another closed-in area that extends to the maintenance barn.”

  “Maintenance for the track or grounds in general?”

  “Mostly the track. It’s pretty labor-intensive—it’s dragged before every race. It’s sand so it needs to be smoothed and leveled. Eight dogs per race means thirty-two paws digging into the surface. It gets torn up quickly.”

  “Anything else in the barn?”

 
; “Only the usual lawn equipment—riding mowers, that sort of thing. And that’s Fred’s domain. You might want to get a hold of him for a tour. He doesn’t like just anybody poking around.”

  Dan didn’t think he needed to see the barn. Couldn’t think of a good reason anyway. Maybe another day. He made a note of Fred’s name. As usual, this was a puzzle. A challenged young man sitting in jail possibly without a good reason as to why; five urns on a desk; a hefty insurance payout; and, oh yes, lest he forget, a dead body.

  “Do you have time to talk with the track vet? He asked me to bring you by.”

  Dan jerked back to the present. The vet was on his list, “Sure, now’s a good time.”

  Melody led him down an east hallway and left him at the door to Kevin Elliot’s office. A quick knock got him inside the immaculate office/lab/treatment room. Absolutely spotless and without any damage from the fire. The man behind the desk was probably his age, early fifties, salt and pepper hair, receding hairline, but crisply decked out in a freshly starched, white lab coat over faded jeans.

  Kevin Elliott motioned him in. “Have a seat. I’d like to help in any way that I can.”

  Dan settled into a chair opposite the vet and took out the iPad. “I appreciate the time. I’d like to clear up a few things for starters.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Were you the first on the scene? That is, after Fucher Crumm and Jackson Sanchez.”

  “Yes, I was on my way into the office that morning. About five. Working early in the day is about the only time I can get paperwork done. It gets pretty crazy during race time. I’m more or less 24/7 around here and I’d just finished inoculating about thirty dogs for kennel cough—didn’t get out of here until around eight in the evening. I decided to go home, get something to eat and a little rest before finishing up the files.”

  “Maintenance crew wasn’t in yet?”

  “Their day usually starts around six or six-thirty.”