Hair of the Dog

by Susan Slater

“Did you call in the fire?”

  “Yeah. I thought I saw smoke from over this way coming down Williamson Boulevard. I called it in the minute I turned into the back lot. Flames were through the roof by then. Volusia FD got here in under ten minutes.”

  “But by that time you’d already found the five dogs that had died?”

  “They were stacked up against the side door. It took a little muscle to just get the door open a couple inches—ended up breaking a window and crawling in. That’s when I found them. I bagged up each of them and carried them out to my truck.”

  “About how long had they been dead?”

  “Not long. Maybe only a matter of minutes. The fire was hot—blistering the paint on the walls in that end of the corridor. And any escape had been cut off—the fire closed in behind them. If I’d only been ten minutes earlier…These were dogs I’d cared for since they were whelped.” Kevin reached across the desk for a couple Kleenex and blew his nose. “They weren’t pretty to look at.”

  “I can understand. I’m a dog owner and it would be very difficult to lose my pet under these circumstances. When was Ms. Halifax alerted to the severity of the situation?”

  “I’m afraid not until somewhat later when I was on my way to the crematorium. By the time I had the bodies in the truck, the fire department was here and things went from barely controlled craziness to all-out chaos.”

  “Did you check on the other dogs at this time?”

  “I made sure they were safe, of course. Fucher did a hell of a job keeping forty-five dogs out of harm’s way.”

  “If he was able to save forty-five, how could five have been lost?”

  “I wonder the same thing. I would have expected the five to follow the others—go out the double doors across the hall. They were probably disoriented because they were released from their crates first. To be honest? I would not have expected them to go toward the fire—back into the building. That goes against natural instinct.”

  “Melody was saying the same thing. Do you think they had help?”

  “Enticed to go against their instincts? That’s interesting. But who?”

  “I think we can assume Fucher already had his hands full. Jackson Sanchez was on the premises.”

  “Assuming he was alive.”

  “Has there been a time of death established?” Dan didn’t remember any mention of one.

  “Well, actually I have no idea. I’m sure an autopsy’s been done. But then you’d have to come up with a reason for Jackson to even be here.”

  “It was unusual for him to be at the kennels at this hour of the morning?”

  “Let’s just say not the usual. If there was something that could be handled by an assistant, Jackson would be long gone. I think it’s fair to say he wasn’t very hands-on.”

  “Sounds like you might not have been too surprised by his death?”

  “Hey, don’t go putting words in my mouth. Jackson was an okay guy—liked the bottle a little too much and would go running off at the mouth when he shouldn’t, but, you know, he was a fixture around here. I don’t think anyone took him too seriously. I certainly never thought he had any enemies.”

  “You didn’t hear that he’d threatened to fire Fucher?”

  “Oh, that was a heat of the moment sort of thing—Jackson came close to losing a dog and he looked for someone to blame.”

  “Did he set things straight with Fucher? Apologize, maybe?”

  “Not that I know of. Doesn’t sound like Jackson—he didn’t make many mistakes, if you know what I mean.”

  He didn’t sound like a guy without enemies, Dan thought. “Oh, before I forget, when were the dogs cremated?”

  “The night they died. I didn’t see a reason to even take them out of the truck. As I said, I gave Dixie a call and got the go ahead. I use the facilities here in Daytona—out on Bellevue. I drove out there that morning and she met me. I have a folder of paperwork here somewhere.” Dan waited as Kevin opened a couple of drawers before putting a manila envelope on the desk. “This has everything you’ll need—dates, causes of death, cremation certificates.”

  Dan stood. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for this.” He reached down and picked up the envelope. One more interview and he’d call it a day.

  ***

  Because this was a “business” meeting, he’d called ahead to the county jail to state time and intent of his visit and to give the facility the opportunity to check his credentials. He also stated that he’d have a recorder. He doubted he’d use it but that depended upon Fucher. The visit was basically a trust-building one. County jails were usually more relaxed about rules—more relaxed than a state pen—but there was still protocol. They were used as a holding facility only, with long-term incarceration coming after a trial, when a move to permanent housing was made. Dan liked dealing with county facilities. If the jail followed normal procedures, Fucher would already be out of his cell and waiting on him.

  And Dan wasn’t disappointed. Fucher was much calmer today, Dan noted. He had been put in a small conference room with one ankle shackled to the chair he was sitting in and someone had given him a soda.

  “Where’s Sadie?”

  “She’s waiting in the car. I’ll walk her after we’re finished and you can see her.” Thank God the end of October meant cooler weather. He’d found some shade and with a bowl of water and every window opened four inches, she would be fine. He didn’t expect this to take long. He reminded himself to watch for signs of stress—he didn’t want any answers skewed. He’d decided to take notes and not use a recorder. The less obtrusive, the better.

  “You want a Coke?” Fucher pushed the red can his way.

  “No, but thanks anyway.”

  “Can I see Sadie now?”

  “I’ve got some questions I need to ask you first.”

  “Okay.” Fucher sat forward elbows on the table. “Questions about Sadie?”

  “These are questions about the fire.”

  “I answered lots of questions already.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had to.” Dan sat down across from Fucher and opened his briefcase taking out the iPad. “Here are some pictures I took today of the office area. Can you show me where you slept?”

  “In the corner on a cot. It’s not there now.”

  “No, it burned in the fire. Was Sadie in the office with you?”

  “Yeah. She slept on the cot, too.”

  A little crowded, Dan thought. “When you woke up that night, Sadie was gone?”

  Vigorous nodding, “I called and called and then went out to find her.”

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “Maybe ten. There used to be a TV there but somebody took it home. So I don’t know for sure.”

  “Did you wake up before you noticed the fire? I mean like to go to the bathroom or maybe if you heard something?” Leading the witness, Dan admonished himself, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere as he noted Fucher shaking his head.

  “I just woke up when the fire made the office all orange. And the smoke, that was bad. I ran out the door but that’s when I fell over Jackson.”

  “Jackson Sanchez? A kennel owner at the track.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where was Jackson?”

  “Right there.” Fucher pulled the screen closer and pointed to the doorway of the office. “There was a puddle of blood all over here”—again his index finger swept the doorway area—“and I stepped right in it. He was in the middle.”

  “What did you do when you found him?”

  “He was on his stomach with a big knife handle sticking straight up right in the middle of his back. Well, I pulled the knife out. That’s the first thing.” And left a good set of prints for the police, Dan was certain.

  “Can you show me where the knife was?” Dan walked around to the other si
de of the table, stopped by Fucher and turned around. “Touch my back where the knife was sticking out.”

  Fucher stood and poked his finger to the right of Dan’s spine directly between his shoulder blades and sat down. “Right there.”

  “Thank you, Fucher.” Dan walked back around the table to his chair. It wouldn’t have taken more than a man of average height, Dan noted. “Can you describe the knife?”

  “My momma would have called it a butcher knife.”

  “You mean a kitchen knife of some sort?”

  “Yeah, like for cutting up a chicken.”

  Dan paused. Butcher knife? That didn’t exactly scream “premeditation.” More like grab what’s handy—a spur-of-the-moment, in the heat of anger sort of thing.

  “Is there a kitchen close to the office?”

  “Right next door.” Fucher pointed to the left of the now non-existent office. Convenient. Made spur-of-the-moment even more likely. And it did make Fucher look guilty. Someone had to know where to find a knife.

  “Do you remember what you did after you took the knife out?”

  “Yeah, I turned him over. Then I had to go let the dogs out.”

  “Did you take the knife with you?”

  “No, it fell on the floor. I never saw it again, even after I came back.”

  “You came back?”

  “I needed to get Jackson out of the fire. I know his momma—well, I seen her here at the track. If Jackson had burned it wouldn’t have shown respect for his family.”

  “Are you saying you moved the body?”

  “Didn’t have to. Jackson was gone. I thought he maybe crawled away. I thought he was dead but maybe I was wrong. Then the police said they found him where I found him—the first time when I fell over him in the doorway to the office. Only I don’t think he crawled back.”

  “Let me get this straight—you first fell over Jackson in the doorway, here,” Dan pointed to the iPad screen. “You pulled the knife out of his back and turned him over?” Vigorous nodding. “Then you ran to let the dogs out and when you came back to the office, Jackson’s body was gone?”

  More nodding. “Just like those dogs.”

  “What dogs?”

  “Max and Mellow Yellow and Sandy—”

  “Wait. Slow down a little here. I don’t know these dogs.”

  “The ones that died. Only I never saw them. When I went to open those crates? They were empty.”

  “Which crates were these?”

  “Right inside the door. I went to let them out first but every crate was open and no dog.”

  No wonder he told Mel he hadn’t seen them. He meant that they never existed—that they weren’t there. Literal thinking always threw people a curve. “Did you tell the police this?”

  “They said I forgot. They said the fire and smoke mixed me up. But Mister Mahoney, I know better. I know what I didn’t see. All them crates were empty. They were in their crates when I fed them—that would have been about six. Then at seven-thirty they were put up in their crates again after they were exercised. But they weren’t in those crates once the fire started.” Fucher’s breath came in short bursts, “I never hurt them dogs. I loved them. I didn’t start that fire. I didn’t kill Jackson Sanchez. I want to go home. I want to see Sadie.” His voice now was a wail and the rocking was picking up in intensity.

  Dan reached across and put his hand on Fucher’s arm and left it there until the sobs subsided and he quieted. Then Dan took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. This put a wrinkle in things. He should probably just go ahead and extend the lease on the townhouse because something told him the young man sitting beside him wasn’t capable of lying. And if he were telling the truth, UL&C would want more answers. Dan simply had to prove that the fire wasn’t started by or at the bidding of someone who stood to gain from the killing of five greyhounds.

  He hadn’t planned on it but after walking Sadie around the parking lot and waving a few times to Fucher, Dan went back inside the building. He needed to pick up the copy of the police report he’d requested, and he might as well see if the arresting cop was available to answer a couple questions as long as he was here.

  “You’re in luck. Officer Bartlett is just getting off duty.” The girl at the desk presumably buzzed the locker room because a young man in street clothes stuck his head through the door to the reception area.

  “You needed to see me?”

  “Officer Bartlett? Dan Mahoney here. I’d like a couple minutes of your time—I have a few questions concerning the fire at the greyhound track this week.” Dan handed him a card.

  “Sure. Is the conference room empty?” With a nod from the receptionist, Officer Bartlett picked up a key from her desk and indicated Dan follow him down a short hallway. “Not the most comfortable but it’ll work.” He opened the door to roughly a five-hundred-square-foot space with a huge carved oak table that would seat at least fifteen, Dan thought. Metal folding chairs screamed tight budget and made him think the table was probably donated. And, no, it wasn’t really comfortable—the table was way too high for the chairs, but Dan took a seat. He briefly explained who he was and why he was there—five dead dogs whose deaths needed to be investigated.

  “Now, how can I help?” Officer Bartlett pulled up a chair opposite.

  “You were the first on the scene at the track fire, correct?” Dan continued after a nod from the officer. “What were your reasons for arresting Mr. Crumm?”

  “Well, other than he had blood all over him and we’d found a body and a knife. We figured we had a pretty good reason to detain him. He admitted he’d handled the knife but tried to tell us the body had disappeared and then showed up again. Some kind of screwy story. Same thing with those dogs that died.”

  “Did you see the dogs?”

  “The bodies? No, the vet had bagged them and already had them loaded in his truck by the time we got there. Only body we dealt with was this Jackson Sanchez.”

  “Why do you think Fucher said the body moved?”

  “Who knows? The guy’s not right—you know, a couple bricks shy.”

  Dan ignored the ill-timed attempt at humor. Bad taste, to say the least, and maybe hinted at a preconceived prejudice. Slapping cuffs on Fucher made his life easier. Solved a problem without a lot of work.

  “Didn’t you wonder why if he was the murderer he’d still be hanging around working—feeding and taking care of forty-five dogs?”

  “Like I said you can’t count on this guy to make much sense. I think he got confused, turned around by all the noise and smoke. Do I think he could have killed Mr. Sanchez and started a fire to cover it up? Yeah, I do. In my line of work you learn to never underestimate the handicapped. The call I hate to take most? When someone mentally impaired is holding a family hostage. Or doing anything threatening, for that matter. It’s like walking into a minefield. You just never know what’s going to happen.”

  “And you think he would have knowingly endangered the lives of the dogs he cared for by starting a fire? I’ve talked to Fucher. He may be a bit challenged, but I think he pretty much knows right from wrong and recognizes danger when he sees it.”

  “When it comes to all those dogs in the kennel that night, I don’t think he thought things through. I don’t think he’s capable of following a thought to its logical conclusion.”

  “But this same individual was able to save the lives of forty-five dogs—that seems to take some deductive reasoning.”

  “He lost five—didn’t you just say that’s your interest in the case? Five insured animals? Hey, I don’t think I can help you any so if you don’t have any more questions, I’m a little behind in some end-of-the-day R & R. By the way, it turns out this Fucher had a pretty good reason to be angry at Jackson Sanchez. Guess the guy was trying to get him fired. That’s reason enough in my books to do him in.”

  Dan stood.
This was a dead end and a little unnerving. He hated closed minds and the man in front of him certainly seemed to have one. He thanked the officer, picked up the incident report from the receptionist, and walked out to the SUV. Slipping behind the wheel he instantly got a wet kiss on the ear and didn’t reprimand Sadie as she crawled over the console into the passenger-side front seat. He liked this dog and he really liked the dog’s owner. Dan was beginning to think of Fucher as having been framed. Dangerous thinking. He had no evidence and was letting emotions push in. Yet that cop left a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe he shouldn’t read more into it. It was probably just what he said, he was in a hurry to get away from work and unwind. Still…a lack of feeling and a bit too quick to finger-point. No, not enough to judge someone on. Dan admonished himself to keep an open mind.

  Chapter Five

  “Mom’s moving to Florida.” Dan folded the letter and slipped it back into its lilac-scented envelope. Even his tech-savvy mother reverted to some time-honored Emily Post tradition of only the written word would do in matters of importance. He would have thought an email would have sufficed. Not the guaranteed to get there within twenty-four hours delivery that cost her an arm and a leg. He’d sent their new address via email. Had that been a mistake? He hadn’t lived in the same state as his mother in over twenty years. He hadn’t counted on starting now.

  “She’s coming here? Are you joking?” Elaine took a toaster out of the box marked “kitchen.” Joan hadn’t been kidding, her garage held all the comforts of home. And their new home was shaping up—furniture in place, dishes in cupboards—they’d spent the weekend acting like newlyweds. Putting the finishing touches on the first “place” they’d lived in together. Granted, it was a rental and destined to be short-lived, but still they were having more than a little fun fixing things up.

  “I may wish I was.”

  “She’s not moving in—”

  “With us? No. Mom would be the first to nix that.”

  “So where in Florida is she moving? I presume with Stanley?”

  “Someplace called The Villages and, yes, Stanley seems to be very much in the picture.”