Dog Tags

by David Rosenfelt

  Eli objects that I’m being argumentative, and Catchings sustains.

  “Can you tell if the gunpowder residue on Mr. Zimmerman’s hand was from the first or second bullet?” I ask.

  “No, we cannot determine that.”

  “Is it possible the second shot was aimed at the dog, Milo? Others have testified that he was running off with the envelope in that direction.”

  “I have no way of knowing that,” Halicki says.

  “Do you own a dog?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “I do.”

  “As a dog owner, does it make sense to you that Mr. Zimmerman would arrange for his dog to take the envelope, and then try to shoot him once he had done so?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “But you would agree that the shot missed badly?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Sergeant, if Mr. Zimmerman were going to shoot Mr. Erskine, why bother to have the dog steal the envelope? Why not just take it from him after he was shot?”

  Eli objects that Halicki cannot be expected to read Billy’s mind, so I withdraw the question and move on.

  “Now, where did you catch Mr. Zimmerman?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean where was he, and how did you find him? Maybe an anonymous tip, or security trapped him at an airport trying to leave the country? That kind of thing.”

  “He was at the scene,” he says.

  I feign surprise; I am a terrific surprise feigner. “So there was a shootout?”

  “No.”

  “Was he holding the gun when you arrived? Maybe threatening to shoot some hostages?”

  “No.”

  “Where was the gun?”

  “On the ground next to Mr. Erskine’s body.”

  I’m wearing my most confused face. “About how long after the shooting did the police arrive?”

  “Less than ten minutes.”

  “And he just hung out waiting for you?”

  “He was on the scene,” he repeats, making little effort to conceal his annoyance.

  “So if I can sum up your testimony so far, your theory is that Mr. Zimmerman directed his dog to steal an envelope from the victim, which the dog did. Mr. Zimmerman then shot Mr. Erskine, after which he turned and tried to shoot his own dog, who had the envelope.

  “Failing that, Mr. Zimmerman decided to hang out with the body until the police could get there to arrest him. Is that about it?”

  Not surprisingly, Halicki argues with my version, and after a few minutes I move on.

  “So let me try it another way. Here’s a hypothetical, based on your testimony. If another person were there, wrestling with Mr. Zimmerman for the gun, could that explain the strange residue pattern, the fact that a shot was taken at Milo, and the fact that the shot missed badly?”

  “I’m not aware of any other man being present,” he says, which irritates me.

  “Are you familiar with the concept of hypothetical questions?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Great, then please answer the one I asked. Hypothetically, could the presence of another man, the shooter, have caused all these factors to occur?”

  He’d love to avoid answering the question, but can’t figure out a way to do so. “It’s hypothetically possible,” he says.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  As soon as court is over I call Colonel Mickelson, and I’m put right through to him. It could be due to his continuing desire to suck up to Kevin’s brother-in-law, General Prentice, or it could be that he’s very interested in any developments in this case. Or both.

  “Too bad about Santiago,” he says when I mention the murder.

  I’m annoyed that an FBI agent and army investigator were at the scene to question Santiago, and I ask him if he had any part in it.

  “Sure,” he says. “Captain Meade was there on my orders. But I can’t speak to the presence of the FBI agent.”

  “You were interfering with my witness.”

  “Back on the streets, I think the expression we would use as a response to that comment is ‘tough shit.’”

  I don’t think I’ve fully intimidated him.

  “You think our conversation was in confidence?” he asks. “What am I, your priest?”

  “Santiago was—”

  “Santiago was a soldier, and he was corrupt. And people died because of him, some of whom were in my command. Now, you may think I’m fine with that, and I’ll just back off and let you go about your business. But that’s not how the army operates; we take care of our own, and we deal with them when they need to be dealt with.”

  “So Santiago is dead,” I say.

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “Somebody tipped the shooter off.”

  “And when we find out who that was, they will be dealt with. But if you’re trying to find him in the army, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Right, I forgot. Your men are pure as the driven snow. Erskine, and Chambers, and Lawson, and Iverson, and Greer, and Santiago, they were all choirboys.”

  “You left out Zimmerman,” he says, a trace of amusement in his voice. My anger is having absolutely no impression on him.

  “Billy Zimmerman is the only innocent one in the bunch.”

  “So go into court and prove it.”

  KATHY BRYANT HAD HOPED NEVER TO SEE ME AGAIN. This doesn’t exactly distinguish her from many other women I’ve known in my life, but her reason is better than most. Talking to me rips the scab off the open wound that is her husband’s death.

  This time she’s allowed me into her Teaneck home, probably having determined that even though I’m an irritant, I don’t present a physical danger. She even offers me coffee, a gracious gesture that I appreciate and accept.

  “How is your trial going?” she asks. “I’m afraid I don’t follow the news much anymore.”

  “It’s difficult,” I understate. “But now we get to put on our case.”

  “Good luck,” she says. “ If your client is innocent, that is.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” she asks, with unconcealed wariness in her voice. If she weren’t so polite, she would be cringing openly.

  “Something you mentioned to me last time we talked,” I say. “You said that Alex was stressed about work, especially in the last couple of months. You said he wasn’t sleeping well, and that the quality of your lives depended on things like the price of oil and gold.”

  She nods, the memory all too fresh. “Yes.”

  “I know it can’t be pleasant to think back on this, but I’d appreciate it if you’d try. Can you recall any specific things that upset him, or anything he mentioned to you about it?”

  “No, it was always general; he didn’t like to talk about work. He said he didn’t want to bring it home with him, but of course it was with him all the time.”

  “Might there have been any conversations you overheard? Anything that related to why he was stressed?”

  “I need to ask you a question,” she says.

  “Of course.”

  “Why do you want to know all this? Alex was a bystander that day; he wasn’t the target. How could it possibly benefit your case to know why he was stressed?”

  Moment-of-truth time. I should gloss over this, not tell her what I’m getting at. It’s a shot in the dark, and there’s no reason she has to enter the tunnel with me.

  On the other hand, if I were her I would want to know and judge it for myself. “He may not have been a bystander,” I say. “I’m not saying that for sure; I’m not even saying it’s probable. But there’s a chance.”

  She nods, but doesn’t say anything for at least one full minute. Finally, “There is one thing that might help you.”

  “What is that?”

  “We were watching the news one night; it must have been the ten o’clock news, because we were in bed. I think I was reading, so I wasn’t paying much attention to the television.�
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  “Okay…”

  “Something Alex saw upset him; I could feel him tense up. He immediately grabbed the phone and made a call.”

  “Do you know who he called?”

  She nods. “I heard him say Stanley, so it must have been Stanley Freeman. Alex walked out of the room as he was making the call, but I heard him say, ‘Stanley, did you hear what happened?’”

  “And you didn’t hear any more of the conversation?”

  “No. But he was on the phone for a long time… maybe fifteen minutes. For him to call Mr. Freeman at that hour, I knew it was something very important. But when Alex came back, he tried to shrug it off, as if it were nothing.”

  “Do you know what Alex saw on television that upset him?”

  “No. But…”

  She gets up and goes to the desk, opening the drawer and looking through some envelopes and papers. She seems to find what she’s looking for, and takes a few moments to read it.

  “I can tell you it was on Friday, March fourteenth.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, because the next day was my niece’s second birthday, and we were supposed to go to her party. But Alex told me in the morning that he couldn’t go, that he had something he had to take care of at work. I knew it had to concern whatever he spoke to Mr. Freeman about, but I didn’t ask him.”

  “Do you know what channel you were watching?” I ask.

  “Definitely Channel Five. That’s the only local news we watch.”

  I stand. “Thank you, this could turn out to be very helpful. If you think of anything else, please call me at any time.”

  “I will. And Mr. Carpenter, if you learn anything about Alex’s… about Alex’s death… that is different from what I’ve been told, I want to know about it immediately. Please.”

  “You have my word.”

  I call Hike on the way home, and relate my conversation with Kathy Bryant to him. I ask him to immediately get on to the task of getting a copy of that night’s news broadcast. “If they give you any problem, ask the court to subpoena it. Judge Catchings will approve it in a second.”

  “I’m on it,” he says. “And I’ll get the other stations as well; if she was reading, she could be wrong about the station.”

  “Good idea. Thanks.”

  Hike just volunteered to do extra work. Can Edna be far behind?

  “MILO, TODAY IS SHOWTIME.” If Milo doesn’t trust me enough to find the envelope by now, he’s never going to. And since this is the Sunday before we present the defense case, there couldn’t be a better time.

  Laurie and Marcus are in charge of security, and Willie is along to provide extra backup. Hike has gone on ahead to prepare for his role, and I’ve allowed Laurie to hire two off-duty cops to help out as well. They are two guys Pete recommended, and whom Laurie already knew.

  Billy had said that there was more chance that Milo would deliver if we did it late at night, so as to mimic the actual event. But that creates too many dangers, and I’m just not going to risk it.

  It’s a tricky operation to pull off. We are all cognizant of the danger to Milo; Santiago’s death removed any doubt that our enemy is resourceful and ruthless. So maximum security is required, but we have to avoid freaking Milo out. We need him as relaxed as possible.

  Laurie attaches the GPS device to Milo’s collar, and we all examine a diagram of the neighborhood surrounding the bar. This is not the first time we’ve studied it; speaking for myself, by now I know it better than the Paterson streets where I live. We go over where each of us will be during the operation; no matter which direction Milo goes, some of us will be in position to follow him.

  Of course, if he just sits there like he did last time, he’ll be fairly easy to follow.

  Marcus grunts a signal to Laurie that the coast is clear, and we’re on our way in what amounts to a deceptive caravan, since we’re pretty spread out to avoid attracting attention. Milo is in the backseat of my car with Willie, who has coaxed him into laying his head on his lap. Willie seems unconcerned that his own head remains in the line of fire.

  When we arrive we all go to our designated spots. Hike stands in the position where Erskine stood, in front of the bar. I stand where Billy stood, and Willie puts Milo in the place where he waited for the signal from Billy that night.

  Today the signal will come from me, the guy Milo does or does not trust.

  Everybody else fans out, in the general direction that Milo ran that night with the envelope. We all have GPS monitors and small walkie-talkies, so if he gets out of our sight, we’ll be able to track him quickly. I’m very nervous about the whole thing, but Milo looks serenely confident. According to Billy, Milo is great under pressure. If I’m ever stuck in a war in a dog-hole, Milo is the guy I want next to me.

  Of course, just as we’re ready to begin the action, it starts to rain. Not a pleasant, drizzly summer rain, but a strong downpour, with the drops banging up off the pavement as they hit. As the commanding general of this operation, I have to make a decision: go or no go.

  I opt for go; we’ve come too far to turn back now, and to do it again just increases the danger. Besides, Milo shows no sign of being affected by the rain. He’s just sitting there patiently, waiting for his cue.

  Hike looks somewhat less joyful than Milo; I’m assuming that standing out in the rain in front of a bar, and not being able to go in, dry off, and order a drink, is not his idea of a good time. It’s becoming quite conceivable that Hike doesn’t possess an idea of a good time. At least I haven’t discovered it.

  Laurie represents the command center; everybody is supposed to call in to her and report when they are set. Finally she gives me the signal… whenever I’m ready.

  I motion to Hike, who nods and slowly starts to walk down to where Erskine stood when he was shot. Milo watches him and then turns to me, and I consider that a hopeful sign. He seems to be waiting for a signal.

  Hike reaches the spot and stands there for a few moments. Milo seems to tense a little, maybe sensing that his moment is coming. As planned, Hike waits for about ninety seconds before taking an envelope out of his pocket. It’s a letter-size manila envelope, which is what Billy believes Erskine was carrying. Inside the open envelope is a piece of Erskine’s shirt; we are covering all the bases.

  Once I see this, I make the hand motion to Milo that signifies he is supposed to make his move. He reacts immediately, jumping up and running toward Hike, who holds out the envelope while recoiling as if he is about to be run over by enemy tanks.

  Milo launches in the air, truly an amazing sight each time I see it. He grabs the envelope out of Hike’s hand, much as he did from Juliet the last time we tried this. Of course, last time he just sat afterward looking for a treat, so this is the moment of truth.

  And he runs… full speed, the envelope in his mouth. He runs back past the bar, just as he is reported to have done that night.

  “He’s on the move!” I yell into the walkie-talkie, and I hear everybody’s excited response on the other end. I start running after Milo, though I don’t want to get too close, since I’m afraid he’ll stop and come running back to me for a treat.

  Within seconds it becomes obvious that my running is a waste of time and oxygen; Milo is out of my sight after a few strides. The last I see of him he is making a right turn at the corner and heading up a small hill.

  I report this to the others, then run to my car. I start the car and drive in the direction I saw Milo run, checking my GPS periodically. GPS reading is not my strength; I certainly hope my fellow GPSers can do better.

  They can. With Laurie directing the way, they keep close tabs on Milo, and I’m able to head in that general direction in my car.

  “Roosevelt Park!” Laurie yells. “Near the tennis courts.”

  It’s a park about six blocks from the bar, fairly small and very quiet. At this time of day, there might be a few people playing tennis, and perhaps some mothers watching their children play on s
wing sets. Though I would imagine the rain would have scared them off already.

  Except for Hike, I’m the last of our group to get there, so I just head for the collection of parked cars. I park as well, then jump out and run toward the tennis courts. I see Laurie, Marcus, Willie, and the two off-duty cops, but I don’t see Milo. When I get closer, I realize that they are blocking the view, and he is just behind them.

  Milo is digging furiously in some brush and dirt. The area has gotten muddy because of the rain, but he doesn’t seem to mind. The envelope that he just took from Hike lies on the ground nearby.

  Watching Milo dig is mesmerizing—his legs pump furiously, and the dirt and brush and mud go flying. He’s like a canine shovel, and in seconds we see it, the envelope we’ve been searching for, lying there exposed.

  Laurie reaches in, takes it out of the hole, and hands it to me. I wipe some of the dirt off and tear it open as neatly as I can. I can’t imagine that the buried and now wet envelope could have fingerprints or other forensic material on it, but I’m careful anyway. Inside the envelope is a packet of papers, fastened together with a paper clip.

  The cover sheet is blank. And so are the rest.

  Except for the last one.

  Which says, “Kiss My Ass.”

  “KISS MY ASS” IS A PHRASE I AM QUITE FAMILIAR WITH. Starting with teenage girls in high school, who certainly did not mean it literally, up through cops, prosecutors, and friends, it’s a request I’ve become accustomed to hearing. So I wouldn’t be particularly wounded if Erskine had meant it for me, though he certainly didn’t.

  Our caravan makes an uneventful return home, and Laurie, Hike, and I ponder what this latest discovery means. Clearly Erskine’s killer did not arrange that clandestine meeting with him to get the contents of the envelope as we viewed them. He obviously thought there was something else, something valuable, inside. Erskine must have given him reason to think so.

  But Erskine was reneging on that agreement. If it was blackmail, as we’ve suspected all along, then Erskine thought he could get away with not turning over the promised material in return for payment. If that is the case, it was a brazen and risky act, because surely Erskine must have known he was dealing with dangerous people.