by Alan Russell
“Did Heather ever indicate to you she might be seeing someone else?”
“No, she didn’t. And I’d be shocked if that was the case. She would have told me.”
“Is it possible that Heather didn’t confide in you about everything?”
“Let’s just say I would be surprised if she kept any secrets from me.”
“So you don’t believe she had some kind of secret life?”
“If I wasn’t so upset, I think I’d laugh at that,” said Katie. “Like I already told you, Heather was Pollyanna, but in the best sense of that word. It’s not that she didn’t know there were bad things and bad people out there, because growing up she experienced both of those things, but she chose not to let any of that color her thinking.”
“Emilio’s therapist seemed to suggest that Heather was an enabler when it came to his behavior, and that she might even have initiated his physical and sexual abuse.”
“The only person I know who would believe that is Emilio.”
“The therapist indicated that since her father was an abuser, she might have been looking for the same in a husband.”
“He doesn’t seem to have factored in Heather’s response to Emilio’s controlling ways and his abuse. She ultimately decided she couldn’t forgive him for what he had done.”
“You don’t think Heather could have liked bondage or engaged in sadomasochistic behavior?”
“That doesn’t even remotely sound like her.”
“What can you tell me about her sex life?”
“Heather wasn’t a prude, if that’s what you’re asking. At first her relationship with Emilio was all that she could have wanted, but then he started trying to control her, and matters got worse from there.”
“Was she afraid of Emilio?”
“I think it was more of a case of once burned, twice shy. She’d suffered enough abuse to not want any more. Imagine having her childhood. Heather was forced to be all grown up by the time she was eighteen. By then she’d seen her mother murdered, her father imprisoned, and her brother die of an overdose. After what she went through as a child, I don’t think she was afraid of anything.”
Katie took a moment to consider what she was saying, and then said, “Except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Heather’s mother was mentally ill. From what Heather remembers, her mother’s condition grew worse over the years. It scared her to think she could end up like her mother. Heather said her mother was probably schizophrenic and was always seeing and hearing things that weren’t there.”
I wrote down, Depressive Disorder? My bout with PTSD had acquainted me with phrases like that. If Heather had suffered some kind of breakdown, that might explain her absence. She could have gone off the deep end.
Katie told me she was late for a meeting but said I could call her later.
I made a second call. Emilio wasn’t nearly as charitable as Katie and wasn’t happy to hear from me.
“I’m on the job,” he said. “You cops have already gotten me on my boss’s shit list. Don’t call me at work.”
“Let’s talk after work, then.”
“Let’s not. I’ve been advised not to talk to you. Hell, even that other cop who talked to me said I didn’t have to talk to you.”
He hung up on me before I even had a chance to say, “Temper, temper.”
Other than Angie, Heather had no family. I decided to hold off interviewing Heather’s friends and coworkers in lieu of organizing my case notes. Most young cops don’t bother with paper, doing everything on their computers, but I’m a great believer in scribbling. Scratching and doodling has a way of clearing my mental logjams. I could use a little magic.
I wrote Angie’s trail underneath my entry of Depressive Disorder? Then I drew a map from Burbank to Sherman Oaks, with some of the landmarks in between. What was it that had brought Angie to my neighborhood? Was it mere chance? And was it only self-preservation that kept her away from the freeways?
Google Street View took me in and around Burbank. From Heather’s house I followed several street routes to my neighborhood. Even though I was using my fingers to travel the ten miles, it still seemed like a long way. The pads on Angie’s worn paws told me she’d walked even farther than that. What had her nose been telling her? I suppose it was possible that fear had been driving her. Although thunderstorms are rare in Southern California, when they occur dogs frequently panic. During Sturm und Drang I’ve seen some dogs in panicked flight, fleeing with no regard as to where they were going. Over the last decade I’ve been involved in two rescues of soaked and shivering dogs trying to distance themselves from the roar of thunder.
Another entry: Did something spook Angie?
When I tired of navigating Google Street View, I decided to tap Pluto the dog into the search engine. The cartoon images of Pluto didn’t look all that much like Angie. I read through Pluto’s film biography; he’d been in more films than most A-list actors. His 1941 film, Lend a Paw, had Pluto saving the life of a kitten put into a bag and thrown into a river, and I was reminded of Sirius running to Angie’s aid. Lend a Paw had been dedicated to the Tailwagger Foundation, a group that I knew was still providing treatment to sick and injured animals around the globe. It is mostly the fault of uncaring humans that dogs and cats end up in dire straits; luckily there are good humans who try to counterbalance the bad.
Every few minutes I found myself checking the time. Finally, I called Sergeant Reyes and again got his voice mail. I tried to take the high road, hoping that would help my chances of his calling back.
“This is Gideon,” I said, “still waiting for your call. If your gout is bothering you, I’d be glad to help with any legwork you might have in the Moreland case. Call me.”
I continued with my scribbling. For some reason I kept hearing Perez’s punch line about what your dog and phone had in common: collar ID. I suppose it was better than hearing his version of “Puppy Love” polluting my thoughts.
Collar ID. The words seemed to write themselves on the paper in front of me. I underlined them a few times and then added some stars. Then I encapsulated the two words in a cube. I don’t claim to be an artful scribbler, but I sensed something was there.
When I’d found Angie, she hadn’t been wearing a collar, and I’d incorrectly assumed she was an abandoned dog. Reyes had given me her collar, not out of any goodwill, but to make it clear that he was in charge and I was merely the animal keeper.
I pulled out my cell phone and began looking at the pictures I’d taken at Heather Moreland’s house. While it was clear I was no crime-scene photographer, thanks to technology my pictures were mostly legible. With my index finger I scrolled through the shots, stopping when I came to the pictures I’d taken through the master bedroom window that faced the backyard. Some of the pictures I’d lined up; others I had shot blind. Even though I’m six feet tall, I’d done most of my looking into the room on my tippy-toes because of the drop-off from the window to the ground below.
At the time I took the pictures, I had wanted to document what I thought looked like a struggle. I hadn’t consciously noticed the dog collar, but now I saw it on the ground near the window.
It seemed like a strange place for a dog collar to be. It almost looked as if the collar had purposely been removed. But if I was right about Heather keeping Angie out of harm’s way by putting her out the window, why would she have removed her collar? Angie’s tags were on the collar; Heather’s personal information was there.
Maybe the collar had fallen off while Heather was lifting Angie through the window. Or it was possible my initial supposition was wrong. Angie could have been in the backyard when the intruder broke into the house. There was a doggie door, after all.
I used my thumb and index finger to expand the image and give me a better look at the dog collar. There didn’t seem to be anything special about what I was seeing. I’d handled many nylon collars just like it. The collar had a quick-release buckle and a snap ho
ok for the leash. I could see the dog tags in the picture. The color of the collar was a robin’s-egg blue, which was what made the vivid rectangular patch stand out. The discolored area looked to be about half the size of the soap cake they provide in discount motels. Something had shielded that section of the collar from the elements.
It was probably nothing, but Doggy Doreen was on my call list anyway. Now I had a reason to call her other than finding out how Angie was doing. Doreen picked up on the second ring.
“This is Detective Gideon,” I said. “How’s our friend?”
“Angie is a very sweet girl,” Doreen said, “but it’s clear she would rather be home with her parent.”
“I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble.”
“No, it’s not that. She was pacing the grounds last night, and she’s been pacing them this morning. Dogs are pack animals,” Doreen said, “and she wants her pack leader back.”
“Still working on that,” I said. “I hate to ask, but could you take her for another night or two?”
“It’s not Angie’s fault that she loves too much. As I told you, I’ll be happy to keep her into the foreseeable future.”
“I’ve got another favor to ask of you,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I wonder if you could look at her collar. I want to see if there’s a brand name inscribed on it.”
“It will take me a minute to round Angie up,” she said. “Do you want me to call you back, or do you want to hold on while I get her?”
“I’m happy to hold on,” I said.
Doreen and her portable phone went in search of Angie. Along the way I heard her talking to other dogs. If I wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like one of those took to sniffing the mouthpiece of the phone. I could hear Doreen calling to Angie. Most of the other dogs responded to her calling, but not Angie. Finally, she caught up to her, and was slightly breathless when she came back on the line.
“I have both Angie and her collar in hand,” Doreen said. “And now I am looking at the collar.”
I could hear the sounds of her examining it. After around ten seconds of silence she said, “There’s no brand name visible.”
I felt a twinge of disappointment, but not much. It had been a long shot anyway, and I wasn’t even sure if knowing what kind of collar it was could have helped my investigation in any way.
“Thanks for looking.”
“But I think the reason I don’t see a brand name is that the tracker is missing,” she said. “I’m fairly certain this is a Doghound collar.”
“Tracker?” I asked. “Doghound?”
“I’ve seen collars that look just like this one before, except this collar is missing its GPS tracker.”
“And you think it’s a brand called Doghound?”
“Now that I think about it, maybe it’s Dogfound. Or it could be Dogfind. It’s something like that.”
“And this collar comes with a GPS tracker?”
“I hear it’s very effective. If your dog goes missing, you can track its movements.”
“Doggone,” I said, trying to control my growing excitement.
My bad pun found pay dirt. “Yes, that’s it!” said Doreen. “That’s the name of the collar! I’m sure of it.”
CHAPTER 18
A PRAYER IN THE LAIR
Heather awoke to the world spinning around her. She shook her head and tried to orient herself, but it almost felt like she had water in her ears that was throwing off her equilibrium.
What time is it, she wondered, and what day is it? She couldn’t even guess at how long she’d been held, and didn’t know if it was day or night.
At least she could move more freely now. Her shackles had been removed, but the damage to her hands and legs had already been done. The cuts and scabs on her wrists and ankles were oozing and looked infected.
Still, that was the least of her worries. Her stomach churned. Her abductor had made a film showing his violation of her. He’d treated her like some kind of curiosity to be used and abused, like a sideshow in his circus. Heather had tried not to watch, and most of all not to react. A camera was filming her. Even if no one was watching at that moment, she had to assume she was being monitored at all times. It was even possible her jailer was watching her remotely. If so, she would offer him no satisfaction. She would deny him his live theater.
But what if it wasn’t Emilio? What if she was the prisoner of a crazed killer? Then I will have to deal with it, she thought. And wasting time thinking about it won’t help me escape.
During her drugged sleep, the dungeon had been rearranged. The funhouse mirror was gone. And her clothes had been removed and replaced by a robe. On the floor she saw what looked like an article of clothing, and she picked it up.
The burka had been designed to cover up her face. There was colored mesh that was designed to hide her eyes and mouth. Heather’s first reaction was to throw the headdress to the ground, but then she decided the burka might prove useful. She could put it on at a time of her choosing and hide her face from him.
He had exposed her body and used it, and then had covered it up. Her captor was trying to exert control of her mind and body. She was in his cage, but there were ways out of cages. All of her life Heather had been finding those ways.
She thought of Angie’s GPS tracker. It was possible her captor had overlooked the device attached to the strap of her nightgown.
At least she’d succeeded in preventing any harm from coming to Angie. Her drooling, snuffling Angie.
Heather prayed then, but not for herself. She asked God to deliver Angie into a good home.
After her prayers were finished, she began a painstaking search of her cell. She would go over every square inch again and again until she figured a way out.
CHAPTER 19
FALSE FRONTS AND DOUBLE MEANINGS
I was forced to listen to Sergeant Reyes’s voice mail once again. This time I said, “I might have something on Heather Moreland’s disappearance. If we’re lucky, together we might even be able to pinpoint her location. I need you to call me back pronto.”
While awaiting Reyes’s call, I went to the Amazon website and acquainted myself with Doggone and similar tracking systems incorporated into dog collars. According to the device’s description, Doggone offered real-time global positioning satellite readings that could be accessed through a web tracking platform used with either a GSM phone or a computer. What that translated to was you could supposedly get a bead on your missing Fido if he was wearing the tracking device. To use the system, you needed to have a SIM card.
Several potential pitfalls surfaced as I read about Doggone. The manufacturer said that the battery life of the product was “up to one week when fully charged.” I suspected the real battery life would be less, and it was likely that Heather Moreland had already been missing for four days. That meant the battery could be dead. There was also the chance that Heather had decided Angie was no longer a runaway threat and let her SIM card lapse to avoid paying its monthly fee. My final worry was whether we could access the web tracking platform in a timely manner. I suspected Heather had downloaded the Doggone app to her cell phone, but even if that was the case, I didn’t know if the program was password protected. I also wasn’t sure if I’d be able to figure out how to use Doggone. The manufacturer’s claim was that it was “easy to use.” I was skeptical.
My phone rang, and the readout told me it was Reyes. I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him any of my doubts.
“I assume you have Heather Moreland’s cell phone in your possession,” I said.
“Your message said you had something. Was that just a fishing expedition?”
“Before we get into specifics, I need to know if you’re currently able to access Heather’s cell phone.”
“In Burbank we actually have cell phones,” he said. “And in case you’re wondering, I’ve been studying her incoming and outgoing calls and text messages. I’ve even gone through her pictures and made
a list of her contacts. And right now I’m trying to get in touch with every single one of her contacts, or I would be except I keep getting interrupted by your calls. So do you have something or not?”
“I might have something,” I said, “but I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Have you checked the phone’s apps?”
“Yeah, that’s been a priority of mine,” Reyes said. “I’ve been sitting here alternating between Tinder and Angry Birds.”
“I want you to look at her apps and see if she has one called Doggone. It has the image of a paw print.”
I listened to Reyes’s heavy breathing while he tapped the phone. The movements of his finger sounded like someone hitting a heavy bag with slow, hard punches. Reyes wasn’t a technophobe, but like everyone over the age of forty, he hadn’t been weaned on technology.
His grunt made it sound as if he’d landed a particularly solid blow. “I found it,” he said.
“In that case I’m crossing my fingers that we’ve found her,” I said.
Reyes wanted an explanation over the phone, but I insisted upon a face-to-face. He reluctantly agreed, but said I’d have to drive to Burbank. He said he’d be grabbing a quick bite at the deli across the street from the police station. Ironically, it turned out to be the same deli where Sirius, Angie, and I had met with Katie Rivera. That wasn’t something I told Reyes.
It took me five minutes to print all the instructions I could find on Doggone’s website, and another half hour to drive to Burbank. I found Reyes sitting in a booth finishing what looked like a meatloaf sandwich. As I made my approach, the same server who’d waited on me before asked, “Where are your dogs?”
“In the car,” I said, hoping Reyes wasn’t paying attention.
“They’re cutie-pies,” she said. “You want me to see if the kitchen has some extra bones for them?”
By now Reyes was listening closely.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m just here for a quick meeting.”
I joined Reyes in his booth. “Seems like you’re a regular here, Gideon,” he said.
