Hair of the Dog

by Susan Slater

  She waited until Scott had finished copying and followed him back into the room. The man sitting just inside the door stood and offered his hand. Manners. Better late than never, she supposed.

  “Scott was telling me your first surveillance job involved Stanley Evers. Interesting coincidence.”

  “It allowed me to use truthful information to dissuade my fiancé’s mother from investing in property with him.”

  “That was timely.” Not a reaction to the word “truthful.” The man was older than Scott and just slightly past his prime. Not one she would think enjoyed crawling under vehicles. Thinning hair, a couple extra chins and just the hint of love handles suggested retirement might be getting close.

  “Yes, it helped me make a decision.”

  “Do you think it helped Ms. Mahoney make a decision?”

  “I’m assuming you mean to stop seeing Mr. Evers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not positive, she’s been out of town, but she has indicated that she won’t be moving in with him.”

  “If the romance is still alive and well, I’d appreciate your letting us know.”

  Elaine looked at Scott but he was staring out the only window in the room with his back slightly turned her way and didn’t seem inclined to enter the conversation.

  “May I ask why?” She was still feeling that Dan’s mother was lucky to have gotten out of the relationship—it didn’t seem a possibility that Stanley would still be around after the little two-hour episode in the storage barn.

  “Let’s just cross that bridge when we get to it.” A smile of dismissal. Elaine slid her report across the table to Scott, turned and left.

  ***

  The chief couldn’t get there until one and Roger needed to run by his office—that left Dan in the casino restaurant sipping his fifth cup of coffee. This might be a good time to catch up with Fred Manson and tour the maintenance barn. Better than just sitting around. News that Wayne Warren was missing coupled with the death of Kevin Elliot and it was like a somber blanket had been thrown over track personnel. People talked in hushed tones reliving when they had last seen the track manager or conversed with the vet. A lot of conjecture—the dead or missing had a tendency to take on the vestiges of martyrdom in a very short period of time. And as to what had happened? Each man had stories circulating and the rumor mills were just getting geared up.

  The tall double doors of the metal barn were wide open and a roller attachment sat between a couple of tractors. Along the back wall was what looked like a king-sized bedspring on wheels. Hoses, water tanks, tool boxes, hanging lights, lights on pedestals, work benches, vices, compressors—the place looked pretty well equipped for repairs, as well as storage.

  Dan grabbed a pair of safety goggles from a bin marked “Mandatory Safety Gear” and slipped them on. This was probably a place for steel-toed shoes, too, but his Nike cross-trainers would have to do. Fred Manson was at the back of the barn supervising a welding job, and Dan was doubly thankful he’d slipped the dark-tinted wraparound glasses on before he entered. Photokeratitus or welder’s eye wasn’t something to mess with.

  Fred looked up and motioned to him. A young man was welding a cross-bar support onto what could have been the frame for an awning. He vaguely remembered noticing awnings across the front of the casino. He guessed maintenance went beyond just the track.

  “I see you decided to visit the dark side. What can I do for you?”

  “I guess the nickel tour if you have the time.”

  “Sure. Let me finish this up.” Fred turned back to the welding project, pointed out a joint and a couple seams in the metal tubing that needed reinforcing then gestured toward an office in the back corner. Dan followed him over.

  “All the comforts of home.” Dan stepped into a neatly set up space of computers, printers, fax machine, not to mention the mini-fridge, and the hot plate next to a coffee and latte machine.

  “Can I get you anything? Latte? Cappuccino? I can’t break out the beer until after five.”

  “No, nothing for me, thanks.” He watched as Fred got a small bag of espresso out of the mini-fridge, filled the basket, tamped down the grounds, slipped the “arm” into a slot in the machine and flipped the switch to “on.” Even after a morning of coffee, Dan had to admit the espresso smelled good.

  “Sure you don’t want to change your mind?” Had he read his mind? Dan again shook his head. “Then tell me what you’d like to know about track maintenance.”

  Dan watched Fred dump the shot of espresso into a paper cup, froth some two percent milk in a metal pitcher, and pour the contents on top. There was something odd about this picture—lattes served in a maintenance barn? Sometimes, just when he thought he’d seen everything…but he reminded himself, he was here to get information, not pass judgment.

  “For starters, and maybe more out of curiosity than a need to know, how important is track maintenance? You’ve got a neophyte here—I don’t even know the composition of a dog track.”

  “Then I could tell you anything. Just kidding, you’ve tapped into one of my favorite subjects. Why don’t we take a walk out to the track—easier to show you and talk about it at the same time.”

  Fred pointed out that from this vantage point at the south end, Dan could see the boxes where up to eight greyhounds lined up for races eight to ten times a day. Weights and condition were tightly regulated and usually one or two dogs were scratched from each race because they were over or under their racing weight. After the weighing of each dog, handlers lead them out to the starting area along the side of the track. The track was dragged and packed between races and only the dogs touched it first.

  Dan couldn’t help but think what a perfect job this was for Fucher—repetitive, exacting but not necessarily demanding, and it involved living beings. The dogs would reward him with their affection. He had an easy-to-follow routine of feeding and exercising and general care well within his capacity to perform correctly. Dan promised himself once again that he’d see the young man back at his job as quickly as he could.

  Fred stopped in front of an apparatus attached to a single rail that circled the track. “The mechanical ‘rabbit’ or lure is started about here. Then as it passes the boxes it will continue for about fifteen to twenty feet before the dogs are released. The lure is controlled electronically from a mechanical room up there.” Fred pointed to a second story on the main building, above the outdoor viewing area that opened off the restaurant.

  “You know they say that you should only bet on those dogs that are consistently in first or second, one-eighth of the way into a race. Fifty-seven percent of the dogs who stay in the lead on this track are the winners. I don’t follow strategies myself…I just want to make sure my dog has peed on his way to the boxes.” A chuckle, then Fred aimed a nasty looking brown stream of spit into the cup that used to hold a latte. “You a betting man?”

  “Not if I can help it.” From the look of barely concealed disapproval, Dan knew he’d given the wrong answer. Funny, Dan had never looked at it before, but he wasn’t a “betting man.” He really didn’t enjoy taking chances—sometimes he was forced to for work, but he wasn’t comfortable doing it. Did that make him stodgy? Maybe he should wear a diamond stud in his ear like the man in front of him? And was that a gold chain peeking out from under the collar of his coveralls? Under the “ring” around his collar? The man was grubby but Dan knew he was probably looking at a lot of money. If the items were real. Somehow, though, it just screamed poor taste. And chewing tobacco? An ugly, messy, cancer-inviting habit.

  “What do you know about greyhound racing?”

  “You’re seeing it. Just about this close to nothing.” Dan held index and thumb about a half inch apart.

  “Well, let me impress you with just how important the condition of this track is. Greyhounds are trained to race an oval but they run in ‘instinctive reac
tion.’ They react to stimuli—the other dogs, the lure—and no one is riding on their backs to steer them around potholes or slow them down for the corners. See those bumpers?”

  Dan looked in the direction that Fred was pointing. The fence set back some twenty feet directly across from the track’s curve was covered with heavy, rubberized padding for a distance of fifteen feet or more.

  “A seventy-pound dog taking that corner at close to forty miles per hour could take a nasty tumble if he lost his footing—momentum could propel him right into the chain-link. That padding can mean life over death.”

  “I guess I never thought that there would have to be special safety features.”

  “An’ we haven’t even talked about the track itself. Let me show you something.” Fred knelt down on one knee at the edge of the track. “A track is to a greyhound as a shoe is to a human being. The track has to cushion and protect the feet of the dogs. But it has to give him traction—think of this as a running shoe, a big Nike for the dog. If the traction isn’t there, the track eats up the animal’s energy. Three things make up the composition: sand, clay/silt, and water. This formula is concocted based on environment—humidity versus dry air, for example. Water is the crucial element. It’s real easy to let a track go soupy. I’m proud to say Daytona has a great reputation for speed and safety.”

  “How long have you been doing this?” Dan had to admit he was impressed.

  “I’ve been numero uno here for about five years. Did research for the University of Kansas. Lot a tracks back there—Abilene’s home to it all. Some of the reasons dog racing has a bad rep is due to the tracks they’re running on. A hard surface and you get broken bones, too soft and it’s pulled muscles.”

  Dan remembered the National Greyhound Registry or Association was in Abilene. Fred was quite the specialist. He might not fit Dan’s idea of the usual maintenance man, but this took some real know-how.

  “Let’s take a look at the equipment.” Fred started back toward the barn. Just inside the door, he stopped by a wide, open-faced, roller machine. “This here maintains the cushion. A big-o hunk of equipment that has a very delicate task. Even adds moisture, if needed.” Fred continued around the barn pointing out a conditioning machine with spike-like tongs, a solid drum-shaped roller used to smooth edges that could flatten a roadrunner if used in a comic setting, and machines that resurfaced, dug up, poured new material—each one looking more forbidding, if not menacing. A rogue’s gallery of machinery, so to speak, if one thought in terms of methods of torture.

  “I don’t think I want you mad at me. Seeing one of these monsters in the rearview would be a little discomforting.” Did Fred look startled?

  Then a belly-laugh. “I forget how all this looks to someone not used to it. These babies are big all right—two to three tons for some of them.”

  But Dan barely heard him. Torture. The body of Jackson Sanchez came to mind. Bruising, smashed toes….“Who has access to this area?”

  “About twenty workers. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I just might need to do some interviews. Do you have a list of those twenty?”

  “Sure, but I don’t see how maintenance can be of interest.”

  “I’ve learned that you never know. Just keeping options open.” Dan smiled and did a little “who knows?” shrug with his shoulders. And the more you protest, the more I’ll make sure I do a little chatting, he decided.

  ***

  The chief must have come early. He and Roger were waiting on him when he entered the casino restaurant. The chief was tall, a little stooped but wide-shouldered, his steel-gray thinning hair cut neatly with a side-part.

  “Don’t think we’ve had the pleasure. Arnold Cox.”

  The handshake was firm and the blue eyes absolutely piercing. Dan wasn’t sure when he’d seen eyes that clear or that naturally blue.

  Two young cops walked up with papers and, after a brief exchange, the chief sent them off. “Time to get those search warrants served.”

  Dan almost blanched. He wondered if he could hear Dixie Halifax yell all the way from her office to where he was sitting in the restaurant. He didn’t rule it out. In the meantime he shared his findings—first as to how they applied to the five insured dogs, then as to how his investigation led him to other areas. The deaths of Jackson Sanchez, and now Wayne Warren.

  Dan filled the chief in—down to the newest disappearance and death of the casino manager and how the ashes in the urns coupled with blood samples from the kennel after the fire moved Wayne Warren’s status from missing person to probable homicide.

  “Your guess is that that all three deaths are related? Jackson Sanchez, Wayne Warren, and the vet?”

  “I’m throwing in Dr. Elliott’s death simply because it seems odd that it would occur just when damaging evidence surfaced indicating his involvement.”

  “It is a little suspect.” The chief leaned toward Dan. “I’m sorry your investigation hasn’t gone smoothly, but it would appear that the dogs are, in fact, alive and didn’t end up in the crematory. Is this your conclusion?”

  “Yes. I’m guessing that all five are still out there very much alive. And the man who supposedly took them to the crematory could have helped us. Kevin Elliott never denied finding the dogs, bagging up their bodies, and taking them for cremation. Obviously, he didn’t count on someone testing the ashes or finding two of the dogs still racing—one with an altered ear number. Did the vet steal the dogs? Has he been behind still racing them? And was Dr. Elliott the one who murdered Wayne Warren, bagged his remains and cremated him? We’ll know more about that when we get the labwork back—I’m hoping the ovens give up some answers.” Dan ordered a cup of coffee. What the hell. It had been over an hour since the last cup and hadn’t he read articles recently that the stuff was good for you? Kept Alzheimer’s at bay or something.

  A young, out-of-breath policewoman interrupted. “Chief, any chance you could talk with Ms. Halifax? She’s pretty upset and demanding that she talk with you.”

  “What do you think boys? Are you in this one with me? I think I could use a little backup.”

  Well, he probably did because halfway down the hallway to her office, they could hear things breaking—the sound of glass hitting glass.

  Opening the door to Dixie’s office was life-threatening. The floor-to-ceiling glass partition beside the door itself shuddered but didn’t break as a ceramic urn hit it and burst. Ashes and pieces of pottery literally exploded and the woman standing in the middle of the room was about to lob another urn in their direction.

  Using the brief lull in the action, Chief Cox pushed open the door. “Ms. Halifax? What seems to be the problem here?” Dan and Roger followed him into the room.

  “A search warrant? You send in your people with a warrant? Just what am I supposed to have in my office that could be of interest? If you want the ashes of my darling dead dogs, help yourself but I can’t imagine why.”

  Dan stepped forward, “I can shed some light on that. Two of your supposedly dead dogs have recently won races here in the state.” Maybe he could get by without having to mention that he’d had ashes from the five urns analyzed. Set up someone to steal the ashes. And he sure as hell didn’t want to tell her she had the cremated body of Wayne Warren on her desk. But he didn’t have to say any of that.

  The urn that Dixie was holding slipped from her grasp and shattered against the granite floor tiles. Then Dixie followed. Gracefully, her legs and body seemed to fold accordion-style leaving her slumped in the midst of the mess at her feet, head to one side, eyes half-closed, ragged breathing, hand on her throat…Either all this was for show and an Oscar was up for grabs, or the lady really was shocked at hearing that two of her dogs were alive. Dan couldn’t tell which.

  “Where are they?” The voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I’m afraid only on tape. The dogs were identified as
Mellow Yellow and Maximillian.”

  A gasp, deep breath, the closing of eyes, then opening them, looking up at Dan. Dixie dramatically held out her hand and Dan helped her to her feet. Brushing off her skirt before running both hands through her hair, Dixie walked to her desk. “And those are the only ones recovered?”

  “Yes, to date.

  “And you are continuing to investigate?”

  “Yes. But I need to know if you saw the contents of the bags in Dr. Elliot’s possession the night of the fire. There’s no guarantee that more than two dogs are alive.”

  “I met Kevin at the crematory. I parked next to his truck in the parking lot. When I walked around his vehicle to go into the building, the tailgate was down and I saw several large, black plastic bags in the bed of his truck. Five to be exact.”

  “Did you at this time or any time inspect the contents?”

  “I went directly inside the building. I sat in the chapel with the proprietor, Paul Fenwick, while the…the…cremation was executed. I picked out the urns and then we went to the chapel. Paul is very comforting. I was beside myself. I couldn’t have looked at my babies. It would never have entered my mind to do so. And certainly the offer was never made.”

  Dan glanced over his shoulder. The chief was directing his officers to bag the remains separately from each of the three shattered urns by first sweeping the contents into neat piles. There was a part of him that hoped he really was looking at the remains of dogs and not Wayne Warren—there was still that outside chance that Roddy with no last name had switched the contents. Yet it made no sense as to why.

  A long day only got longer. A priority, rush-request to the police lab confirmed the ashes from all five urns as Wayne Warren’s and the chief took Dixie to his office downtown for questioning and a statement. Dan vaguely wondered if she’d get a lawyer. None of his business now. He was spared the nastiness of having to tell her he’d already pilfered ashes from the urns. But that seemed small compensation for how ugly the case had become in general. By the time he got home Elaine’s rented Hyundai SUV was in the drive and he was already late for dinner.