Gideon's Rescue

by Alan Russell

  With Sirius acting like a protective big brother toward her, I went back to my observing. The last time I’d been at the business, I had seen at least half a dozen dogs in various spots around the property. A few of the dogs had been on long chains; others had been housed in the kennels. Today there were fewer dogs on display.

  Emily whined, and then whined again. “It’s okay,” I told her, “it’s okay, girl.” But it wasn’t. I hadn’t thought of how she might react to this place. I probably should have driven away and parked elsewhere, but I wanted to finish up my business.

  With a flyer in hand, I got out of my car and walked toward the office. An unsmiling Fausto looked up when I entered the trailer. As far as I could tell, Fausto wasn’t carrying a gun.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Fausto nodded. His one visible eye stared me up and down, looking hard and suspicious. By comparison, his eye patch side looked almost charitable.

  “I brought this flyer,” I said, showing it to him. “I’m wondering if I can hang it here.”

  I stopped talking at the sound of something banging against glass outside, and throaty growling and barking. Having worked with dogs most of my adult life, those are sounds that immediately get my attention. This wasn’t casual barking. These were calls with an urgency to them, and a voicing of threat. The barking was rapid and low; the sounds, I realized, were being caused by the impact of a dog collar against glass. Emily was responding to the threat she perceived.

  The office door flew open. Tito closed the door behind him, making sure it was secure. In the distance, Emily continued to throw herself against the car window.

  “I’ve never seen my dog act like that,” I said. “It’s almost like she’s telling me something, wouldn’t you say?”

  Tito didn’t bother putting on his carefree islander act, and shucked his Caribbean accent. “What do you want?”

  I was glad to hear Emily’s fierce response subsiding. She was no longer throwing herself against the window. Her warning barks were still sounding, but now that Tito was out of sight, they weren’t as frantic.

  “Like I was telling Fausto here,” I said, “I was hoping you’d let me post my flyer in one of your windows.”

  I held one of the flyers up for Tito to see. What caught the eye more than anything else was the green-hued promise of a $5000 reward.

  Tito glanced at the flyer. What he saw made him frown even more. When his body shifted, I was fairly certain that under his windbreaker was the outline of a holstered gun. But was it the right gun? There were no ballistics in yet on the dogs dumped near Nevada, and I wanted those reports before I popped him on possession of a firearm, even if it was officially Fausto’s.

  “I spent the last two hours talking to business owners around here,” I said. “They were all cooperative about letting me put up a flyer.

  “Most of them hadn’t heard about the dogs that were dumped. As you might imagine, they were horrified. They told me they’d be glad to help in whatever way they could. In fact, everyone around here has been cooperative. I talked to people at the Laundromat and the bus stop. And I posted the flyer at that bulletin board area a few blocks over. Frankly, I wondered if people would even care. Or if the only thing that motivated them was the promise of a reward. That didn’t prove to be the case, though. I found that very heartening.”

  “Take your flyer and shove it,” Tito said. “And get the hell out of here.”

  “No need to get hot,” I said. “I just wanted to give someone in this neighborhood a chance to cash in first. The phone lines will probably get crazy once the Crime Stoppers ad starts running, especially as it will air throughout Los Angeles County and beyond. You never know who might have seen something or heard something.

  “And the exciting news I just heard today is that Selena Gomez is going to lend her voice to our efforts. Can you imagine that? I can’t really say I’m a fan of her music—I mean, I liked her vocals in “Good for You,” but let’s face it, her demographic is pretty far removed from me. Still, I think it’s great she’s on board. Usually, I’m not big on celebrity endorsements, but her involvement will definitely focus more eyes on what occurred. And I understand she’ll do at least one spot in Spanish.”

  The door to the office opened. A man in work clothes stepped inside. It looked like he’d come from demolition work. He had on heavy-duty boots and worn jeans. His long-sleeve cotton shirt was stained and dusty. In his hands were construction gloves. He looked around, expecting a greeting he didn’t receive.

  “I got a truck full of scrap,” he said.

  “Fausto will help you,” said Tito.

  As the two men made their way out of the office, I said to Tito, “It looks like you’re busy today. Are you doing some kind of move?”

  “If you don’t leave the property right now,” he said, “I will call the chief of police’s office and register a formal complaint that you’re trespassing.”

  “If you want me out of here,” I said, holding my hands up as if protesting my innocence, “then I’m out of here. And don’t worry, I’ll take my dogs with me. But for your own sake, I’d stay in this office until we’re gone. For some reason my pit bull really doesn’t like you. It’s like she hates you. Strange, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Cheshire Cat

  When I got in the car, I could see Emily was still unsettled. Her slobber was all over one window, and the glass was scratched where her nails had clawed. It was my fault, of course. I shouldn’t have put Emily in the position that I had. I was lucky she hadn’t broken through the window, or that Sirius hadn’t decided to open the door for her. If that had happened, it was likely either Emily or Tito would have ended up dead.

  “I’m sorry, Emily,” I said, reaching to comfort her.

  As I touched her, she began to tremble. It was PTSD, I was sure. The two of us apparently had that in common, and I felt bad that I had helped bring hers on.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  I knew the faster and farther we got away from Tito Rivera and Best Scrap, the better Emily would feel. We made our escape from the lot, and during the drive I continued talking to her, hoping the sound of my voice would make her feel better.

  “We’ll stop at a park,” I promised. “And I’ll spring you from your e-collar, and then I’ll give you a rubdown. And you can roll in the grass, and Sirius can roll in the grass, and I’ll roll in the grass. And that’s how we’ll wash that bad place, and bad man, out of our minds.

  “We’ll even make it a little picnic. The three of us can all get turkey subs. How does that sound?”

  There was no question but that it sounded good to Sirius. And it looked as if Emily was coming around as well. Her trembling was diminishing, and she appeared less traumatized.

  “You showed him, Emily. When the bad man ran into the office, he couldn’t hide his fear. That’s why he was so angry. Sick men like him have sick definitions, and one of them is that a dog is only considered game if it will fight on command, fight all the way to death if necessary. But most dogs aren’t any different in that way from humans. Who wants to fight without good reason? But there’s no shortage of game in you.”

  I know it wasn’t the words but the tone of my voice. I know Emily didn’t understand a thing I was saying, except the most important thing: she was loved.

  And love is worth fighting for.

  One of my favorite delis in the Sherman Oaks area features what is called a Thanksgiving Sub. The sandwich consists of mashed sweet potato with turkey on a hoagie roll. The cranberry sauce is optional, and I don’t get it if I’m sharing with a four-legged sort. It’s a great dog dinner if you’re on the run. Add some spinach, and it’s a pretty balanced meal for both humans and dogs.

  I called ahead and arranged for our subs to go. After getting them, our next stop was the Van Nuys–Sherman Oaks park. All the picnic tables were vacant, so I let the dogs sniff out their favorite one. Two of the sandwiches had
been cut into quarters. My idea was to dole out the subs to the dogs; their idea was to bolt whatever I gave them. We compromised, which allowed me the chance to eat some of my own sub. Afterward, with full bellies, we stretched out in the afternoon sun. As promised, I took off Emily’s e-collar and gave her a rubdown. With the passage of time she was beginning to look less and less like a Frankenstein dog. As I applied lotion to her, I checked her wounds to make sure she was properly healing. Everything was looking good on her save for the abscess near the top of her head; that wound hadn’t fully closed, and there was still some discharge coming from it. I was sure that battering her head against the window while trying to get at Rivera hadn’t helped the wound any, but I suspected the underlying problem was a lingering infection.

  The day before, I remembered, I had come to the same conclusion. My other conclusion had been that Emily needed to see my vet. It was past time to act. I pulled up Dr. Wolf-Fox’s contact information, and then called her office. After four rings, the receptionist answered and said, “Please hold.”

  If I’d known the hold music was going to be “Let It Go” from the animated movie Frozen, I probably would have hung up then and there. What ended up being even worse was that my time in purgatory wasn’t rewarded; when a human came back on the line, she told me that unless my animal’s condition constituted an emergency, all the afternoon appointments were taken. We agreed on an eight-thirty appointment the next morning.

  “‘Let it go, let it go,’” I said to the dogs.

  It was the brainwashing from the hold music talking, but they seemed fine with the sentiment.

  On the drive home, I heard the sound of ringing. The display told me Ben Corning was calling. Knowing the reason he wanted to reach me was to arrange a time for my talk with Ellis Haines, I decided to let his call go straight to voice mail. Psychologically, I wasn’t yet ready to commit to a time. Before I did that, I wanted to look at the crime scene photos the FBI had sent over the day before. And like anyone trying to put off the unpleasant, I wanted to procrastinate as long as possible.

  Once home, I filled up the water bowls, then made myself an iced tea. My preferred reading spot is an easy chair in the family room, and I set myself up there. I took a deep breath, leaned back in the chair, and opened the folder. From experience, I knew it was necessary, if not easy, to be a dispassionate viewer. This was the third time I was venturing into the polluted waters of the All-In Killer. The killing spree had been announced with a variety of playing card and poker terminology. Because aces are called bullets and twos are called ducks, the ace-two hand is known by poker players as hunting season. Jim Grinnell had died so that the killer could announce the game was at hand. That murder had been followed up by an association with the king-three, a hand known as King Crab. The latest was the queen-four, or a prince maker.

  I looked at the first picture of the latest victim: Diana Prince. Just like the previous victim, she had been killed because her last name fit the pattern of Texas Hold ’Em slang. She was believed to be the first female victim of the All-In Killer.

  The Feds provided an extensive write-up, along with dozens of pictures from the crime scene. The bulk of the report dealt with the latest kill, although the previous two murders were also referenced. The All-In Killer seemed to change his methodology with each kill. The first victim had been shot (according to the figures provided, almost half of all serial murderer victims died that way); the second victim had been axed (which, according to the FBI, only occurred in 1.46% of serial murders); and the third victim had been bludgeoned (the methodology used in 9.2% of serial murders). So far, two of the victims had been male and one female. Statistics kept over the last century noted that 51.5% of serial murderer victims were female, and the majority of those were Caucasians. Thus far, all three victims had been white.

  One seeming anomaly among the All-In Killer’s victims revolved around the ages of the victims, compared to the national average of other serial murderer victims. The youngest of the victims was fifty-eight and the oldest eighty-four. Diana Prince was sixty-two. The median age of those killed nationally was substantially younger, hovering around thirty-three years of age.

  Almost a third of all serial murderers said the primary reason they killed was “enjoyment.” The FBI believed the All-In Killer’s murders fit that category, even though the deaths were also clearly a way to communicate with Ellis Haines.

  Sick games, I decided, must qualify as enjoyment. The All-In Killer’s primary motivation appeared to be communicating with Haines.

  I studied the next picture of Diana Prince. The murder weapon was believed to be something heavier than the croquet mallets; tests were now being conducted to see if an engineer’s hammer had been used, at least for the initial blow. I flipped to the next photo. Ben Corning had said lipstick was used to paint a red heart on her face. What he hadn’t mentioned was how pervasively her lips had also been painted. So much ruby-red lipstick had been applied, I thought of Heath Ledger’s face when he’d played the Joker in the movie The Dark Knight.

  Maybe that wasn’t happenstance, I thought. It was possible the killer was offering up multiple meanings. The queen of hearts wasn’t a concept confined only to cards or to the landscape of Wonderland. Over the years, a number of singers had covered the song “Queen of Hearts.”

  What Corning hadn’t mentioned to me was that the red lipstick had been used for something else. Pictures had been taken where the lipstick had been applied to the white drywall. The photos showed two upturned lines that extended about six inches in length, parallel to one another. The FBI had several guesses as to the purpose of the lines; it was also thought they’d been drawn to make it easier to apply the lipstick on the cadaver, much in the manner that someone might scratch a pen on paper to make ink flow.

  I had another theory. The killer was bragging. He was also winking at Ellis Haines.

  To my thinking, the two lines formed a grinning mouth. In the world of Wonderland, that conjured an image of the enigmatic Cheshire Cat. And when the Cheshire Cat disappeared, the last trace of him that could be seen was his smile.

  It was the Cheshire Cat who had said to Alice, “I’m not crazy. My reality is just different than yours.”

  The All-In Killer, I suspected, was saying the same thing. There was a lot more subtext in his crime scenes, I was beginning to believe, than I had imagined. I would need to study the first two crime scenes much more carefully.

  I wondered what else the killer had been communicating. And I wondered what else Ellis Haines had been withholding.

  Chapter Thirty

  Positively Creepy

  I let Special Agent Corning leave two more messages before I called him back. By then he was getting close to frantic. He had already talked to San Quentin prison officials and arranged an eleven o’clock call for the next morning but was waiting for me to confirm. I told Corning the time worked for me but that I would need something in return. He actually sounded relived when I told him that what I wanted were the up-to-date case files for the three homicides attributed to the All-In Killer.

  “The fastest way I can get them to you,” said Corning, “is by sending electronic files for all three. The only caveat is that unless you have a special printer, the clarity of the photos won’t be nearly as crisp.”

  “Blurry works even better for me,” I told him.

  Corning seemed to find that funny and promised to send the files within an hour.

  My next call was to Detective Andrea Charles of the Las Vegas Police Department. “This is getting sort of creepy,” she said. “Just like the last time we talked, I was reaching for my phone to call you, only to have you call me.”

  “Last time, did I say, ‘Great minds think alike’?”

  “It was either that or something equally nonsensical.”

  “It’s good to hear I’m consistent at least. Since I’ve been sitting here venting about Ellis Haines, I decided misery needed some company.”

  “What�
��s Haines done now?”

  “I told you how he and that scumbag killer had forged a relationship. Now I’m beginning to think it goes a lot deeper than that. They have a dialogue going via the bodies, and I don’t think it’s one-way. I am pretty sure that even from behind bars, Haines is managing to get word to this All-In Killer.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m just beginning to realize the extent of the subtext in the crime scenes. This might sound paranoid, but I think I’m part of their discussion.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “My gut is. But you’re the first to hear my speculations.”

  “You almost sound betrayed,” she said.

  “Haines and I have a complicated history,” I said. “He’s even intervened on my behalf. Of course, I’ve always suspected he acted in his own self-interest, because he didn’t want anyone else to have the pleasure of killing me.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “It is,” I said, “but it comes with survivor’s guilt. As long as Ellis Haines is alive, I’m going to feel responsible for any and all evil he commits, even if it’s secondhand. I could have, and should have, put a bullet in him years ago.”

  “You missed your opportunity once,” she said, “so let’s not miss a second time.”

  “You got something?”

  “I’m not ready to celebrate,” she said, “but I did find a potential witness who links Haines with one of our victims.”

  I could hardly hear my own voice over my suddenly pounding heart. “How credible is the witness?”

  “When I went into Dino’s Lounge, two different employees said I needed to talk to Darlene DeVito, or Dee Dee as everyone seems to know her. As they told me, her memory is legendary.”