by Kelly, Diane
No problem here. I’d never been afraid of hard work.
The bomb squad officer stepped closer, reaching his hands up and curling his fingers around the top of the chain-link fence. I tried not to notice the way his biceps bulged, how his broad chest tapered down to flat abs and a trim waist. I tried, but I failed. I noticed. Then I kept noticing. In for a penny, in for a pound.
He cocked his head. “I’m Seth Rutledge, by the way. I work for the fire department.”
“So I figured,” I replied, gesturing at his shirt.
He looked down, as if to remind himself what he was wearing. He chuckled, cocked his head, and flashed me a grin. “I can see why you’re a cop. You don’t miss any clues, huh?”
“Not a one.”
His dog barked again, as if reminding Seth to introduce him: Arf!
Seth gave his dog a quick scratch on the head. “This loudmouth is Blast.”
I tilted my head to indicate my dog. “Brigit.”
One side of Seth’s lips lifted in a half smile. Damn but if the guy wasn’t even more attractive up close and personal. It’s not that his face was perfect in that GQ cover model kind of way. His ears were slightly on the too-big side and his right cheek bore a light scar, a faint pink blotch the size of a small lemon that ran down to his jawline. But these traits only made him more enticing. He wasn’t some airbrushed illusion, all makeup and camera angles, who would merely traipse around in a woman’s fantasies. He was a real man. Flesh and blood.
Seth let go of the fence and took a step back. “Have fun with your training, Officer…?” He quirked a brow in question.
“Luz,” I said. “Megan Luz.”
“Megan Luz,” he repeated, saying my name slowly, as if committing it to memory.
Seth’s dog grabbed at the towel in his hand, drawing his attention away from me. Stupid dog.
“See you later,” Seth said.
I hoped he would. Maybe over a nice dinner and a bottle of wine. I could impress him with my recently acquired knowledge of Bigfoot tracking techniques.
Brigit and I went inside. The desk clerk directed us to a field out back, where we checked in with the instructor, a dark-haired man with an athletic build. He wore khaki shorts along with a bright-green knit shirt and matching baseball cap bearing the facility’s logo, a white outline of a dog sitting up straight, its ears perked, its head held high. A shiny metal whistle hung from a chain around his neck. The instructor introduced himself as Hank and shook first my hand, then Brigit’s paw.
“Wait a minute. I know this dog. Her name’s Brigit, right?”
I nodded.
Hank formed a gun with his index finger and thumb, pointed it at my partner, and pretended to shoot. “Bang!”
Brigit immediately went limp, fell over onto her side, and lay there, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, playing dead.
“I taught her that trick,” Hank said, pride evident in his voice. He bent down and ruffled her ears affectionately. “Brigit was one of the smartest dogs ever to come through the facility. She always paid attention and caught on quick.” Hank looked up at me now. “It’s rare to find a female dog on a police force. Males are normally preferred for their aggression.”
Given the way Brigit had behaved so far, I doubted lack of aggression would be a problem. The bitch seemed to suffer a chronic case of PMS.
Hank ran his hands down her sides, groping her through her fur. Really, he should buy her dinner first. “Solid muscle,” he said. “You’ve kept yourself in good shape, girl.”
Brigit wagged her tail and licked his hand as if she knew she’d been complimented. What a suck-up.
Hank stood. “You may not realize it yet, but that dog’ll be the best friend you’ll ever have.”
Surely he’d meant his words to be encouraging, but instead they struck a sad chord in me. I’d never had a best friend. Back in elementary school, nobody wanted to hang with the girl who stuttered. A couple of the mean kids had made fun of me, calling me M-M-Megan or Luz the loser. I’d been unable to defend myself, afraid if I said something back I’d stutter again and only add fuel to the fire. To make matters worse, I couldn’t tell the teachers about the teasing. I couldn’t manage to get the words out. The frustration was evident on the teachers’ faces as they struggled to understand me, to help me form the words. The effort was likely futile anyway. Even if the teacher had scolded the other students or punished them, they would’ve just continued their torture when the teacher turned her back, maybe even amped things up.
Doctors don’t fully understand what causes stuttering, but most children eventually outgrow the problem. As for me, though, no matter how much I practiced in private, I couldn’t shake the stutter. While my speech problem had improved over the years, it had never gone away completely. I learned that my best defense was to limit my communications with others to essential speech only. I’d refused to do oral presentations in school, taking zeros on my grade reports rather than suffering the embarrassment of stuttering in class. I became used to keeping quiet, used to being a loner … even if being a loner meant being lonely.
Not all of my classmates had teased me, of course. But the ones who didn’t tease me pitied me, which was almost as humiliating. None of them stuck up for me, either, afraid that doing so would make them a target for the bullies, too. Wimps.
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.
In retrospect, I suppose my childhood experiences are what led me to become a cop. I didn’t want evil to triumph. I wanted to be a good person and do something.
With that thought, my resolve returned in full force. Here I was, doing something. And damned if I wasn’t going to do it well, prove to the chief that I was much more than a rookie with a hair-trigger temper. I was capable, perceptive, and smart. I’d show him.
Hank stood, checked us off on his clipboard, and directed us to a group of four other students and dogs who had already arrived. I shook hands with the other students while Brigit and the other dogs took turns sniffing one another’s butts. Blurgh. Glad I wasn’t a dog.
The other officers were all male and all from various smaller police forces in towns making up the Fort Worth suburbs. All of their dogs were male, too. One of them was a Belgian Malinois while the other three were full-blood German shepherds. Not to brag, but Brigit was the best-looking K-9 among them. Not that looks mattered in her line of work.
When Brigit had finished sniffing the boy dogs’ butts, she reared up onto the back of the largest shepherd, wrapped her front legs tightly around his chest, and proceeded to hump his hindquarters. Casting furtive glances back at my partner, the dog moved forward, trying to get out from under Brigit, but only succeeded in dragging her along with him. He turned his head as if to bite her but couldn’t quite reach her face or paws. Finally, he dropped down in a last desperate attempt to throw her. She hung on for dear life, humping away on the crouched form helplessly immobilized in her clutches.
“Brigit!” I cried, horrified and embarrassed. “Stop!”
I yanked back on her leash and the shepherd finally managed to extricate himself from her grip. He darted away, scurrying over to hide behind his human partner.
The handler of the Malinois, a hulk of a guy standing at least six feet four, issued a snort. “Your dog has gender identification issues.”
“Maybe she’s a lesbian,” said another.
I didn’t bother to point out that in order for Brigit to be a lesbian she’d have to be humping another female dog. This conversation was ridiculous enough already without me piling on.
Hank stepped up. “Brigit’s just establishing her dominance.”
Wonderful. My dog was a dominatrix. Perhaps I should buy her a leather whip and some thigh-high boots to go along with her studded collar.
Hank clapped his hands once to get everyone’s full attention. “Give me one straight line, dogs sitting on your left unless you’re a southpaw, in which case your dog should sit on your ri
ght.”
We officers took our places in line. Brigit stepped into place beside me and sat, her head up, her ears pricked for further instructions.
Teacher’s pet.
ELEVEN
LEADER OF THE PACK
Brigit
Her new handler had a lot to learn. Who did she think she was, pulling Brigit off that other dog? Didn’t she know Brigit had to let him know who was boss?
Looked like her handler still needed to learn who was boss, too. Maybe Brigit would have to hump Megan next.
Brigit sat at attention next to her partner. Though she didn’t move, her mind actively processed the scents picked up by her twitching nose. Fresh-cut grass. Shaving cream. Vanilla shower gel.
Raccoon.
Brigit lifted her nose and turned her head. The raccoon hid among the scrubby trees outside the perimeter fence. Lucky for him or Brigit would’ve eaten him for breakfast.
TWELVE
NOT YOUR EVERYDAY DIY PROJECT
The Rattler
With summer well on its way, Home Depot had discounted its remaining inventory of patio furniture and outdoor grills. The Rattler grabbed a set of barbecue utensils from a half-price bin. His bomb would not only be filled with a creative array of sharp objects, but it would be cost-effective as well. No sense spending any more than he had to. After all, he’d need to hang on to some of his cash for afterward, to put a down payment on a place near the coast.
He hadn’t yet decided among Galveston, Port Aransas, and South Padre Island. Hell, he might even cross the border and find a nice little casita on a beach in Mexico. The country didn’t have the death penalty and refused to extradite anyone facing a possible capital sentence in the United States. It couldn’t hurt to set up south of the border for a little added protection. Not that the Rattler thought he’d ever be identified or caught, of course. He was much too smart for that.
He tucked the barbecue set into his handheld basket and proceeded to the nail aisle, marveling at the variety of nails offered. Galvanized steel nails. Vinyl coated. Bright finish. Smooth shank. Even something called a sinker nail, whatever the hell that was. Though the Rattler was a devout Marxist—he’d read The Communist Manifesto cover to cover seventeen times—he had to acknowledge that capitalism occasionally had an upside.
Though many of the nails appeared to be multipurpose, there were specialized nails for framing and drywall, even plastic-capped nails for roofing. Why not get an assortment? Variety is the spice of life, after all.
Now it could be the spice of death.
Some of the nails would go into his practice bomb, but many would be saved for the real event, along with one of those special nails he had at home in his bottom dresser drawer. That particular nail would put the investigative capabilities of local law enforcement to the test.
He slid several boxes into his hand basket before moving on to the screws. The screws, too, came in a variety of lengths and widths, with varying types of heads. Polymer-plated flat-head. Coarse phosphate-plated steel bugle-head. Hex-head concrete anchors.
He examined the screws, choosing the longest and sharpest to add to his basket. Why waste time with the smaller, shorter screws that would inflict only flesh wounds? He needed screws that would dig deep, tearing through skin and sinking into organs and bones, drawing blood.
On his final stop in the store, he picked up several short lengths of metal plumbing pipe, as well as caps for the ends. Seemingly benign materials used for a variety of purposes, nothing that would necessarily draw attention.
His basket full, he headed up front to the checkouts. Though he’d hoped to use one of the self-checkouts as he’d done at Walmart, none of the lanes were open. He was forced to stand in line behind a middle-aged woman with three gallon-sized containers of jasmine and a bag of composted cow manure in her cart. The sweet scent of the flowers and the reek of the bovine excrement combined to create a contradictory and nauseating aroma.
When it was his turn, he stepped up to the register. A stoutly built woman with a man’s haircut and no makeup stood behind the counter. Her eyes flickered to his cap. “Hockey fan?”
The Rattler had never attended a hockey game, nor had he ever watched one on television. The only hat trick he knew was the trick he was pulling with his San Jose Sharks cap, trying to fool people into thinking he was someone else … anyone else. He forced a smile as he placed his basket on the countertop. “You got me.”
“I’m a Stars fan myself.” The woman cast him a pointed look that implied he’d betrayed the local team by wearing a competitor’s cap. She pulled the boxes of nails and screws out of the orange plastic basket, running them over the scanner with a beep before plunking them into a plastic bag. “Looks like you’ve got a big home improvement project planned.”
The nails and screws and pipes weren’t for construction; they were for destruction. But this nosey bitch didn’t need the details.
“Oh, yes,” the Rattler said, offering her a sincere smile this time. “I’ve got very big plans.”
THIRTEEN
TRAINING
Megan
Hank began our training by giving us an oral history of dogs and their uses in war, police work, searches and rescues, and as service animals for the disabled. I was amazed to learn that dogs had served alongside paratroopers, parachuting into war zones along with their handlers. Interestingly, Rin Tin Tin, the American canine movie star, had originally been a member of the German military but was left behind by soldiers in 1918 as they fled with their tails between their legs. No more bratwurst for Rin Tin Tin once the Americans took in the abandoned dog, but the dog did earn a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, along with fellow canine actors Strongheart and Lassie, and was paid a pretty penny for his acting roles.
I’d never realized how many things a trained police dog could do. Dogs were used to sniff out drugs, perform building searches, keep watch. Not only could they chase and restrain a suspect; they could also track and sniff out suspects who attempted to evade arrest on foot. Hank noted that a suspect will often surrender more peacefully when a K-9 is on-site, because the suspect realizes he can’t outrun, overcome, or reason with a dog. Dogs were used to find missing children and elderly people who’d wandered off. Dogs were even being used now to find lost pets. Dogs could also be used for arson investigation and sniffing for explosives.
Unfortunately, about the only thing dogs couldn’t do was clean up their own crap. I learned that lesson right away. We handlers were required to tidy up after our partners. Yick. At ninety-seven pounds, Brigit produced turds the size of cow patties.
As he wrapped up his history lesson, Hank noted there was a memorial at the police headquarters in Jacksonville, Florida, for dogs who’d been killed in the line of duty. At the thought of a dog giving its life to serve and protect people I felt a slight tug at my heart. Maybe I’d sold Brigit and her entire species short by considering her less worthy than a human partner. Maybe I should stop by the grocery store and pick up a T-bone for her dinner tonight.
We spent the rest of the morning learning how to control our dogs off leash. Hank taught us the commands to use to make them sit, stay, and return to our side. Each time the dogs obeyed, we were to reward them with praise or a pat or some playtime, along with an occasional treat.
After the lunch break, Hank moved us to an inside classroom where we could avoid the brutal afternoon sun. It was time for a lesson in sniffing.
“Dogs can be trained to sniff for all kinds of things,” he said. “Drugs. Explosives. Blood. Cadaver dogs are used to find … well, I guess that’s self-explanatory.”
He went on to tell us that dogs had been trained to sniff out bumblebee nests, bedbugs, and termites. They could also use their noses to locate mold, mobile phones, currency, and polycarbonate disks such as bootleg DVDs. Dogs had been used to find an invasive species of mussel that often hitched a ride on recreational boats, and had even been used to detect cancerous tumors. Impressive, no?
&nb
sp; Of course no single dog could be trained for such an extensive array of targets. Each dog would have his or her specialty. Our dogs would be what were known as dual-purpose dogs, trained to track a hidden or fleeing suspect and to locate illicit drugs. The blood, explosives, and dead bodies would be left to their canine coworkers in other departments.
Although all of us cops had been trained in building searches in our regular police training, Hank gave us a lecture on how to conduct a search with a dog.
“Sending a dog ahead into a building is less risky for the officers,” Hank noted, “and a dog can locate a suspect more quickly.” He mentioned that it was important for the officer to attempt to keep the dog in sight, so the cop could give the attack order if a suspect attempted to flee.
After a few more tips and pointers, Hank concluded his lecture and we moved to an adjacent area of the facility set up for search training. The place was divided into three rooms, each of which was filled with random pieces of furniture that appeared to have been picked up at secondhand shops or garage sales. A dining table with six mismatched chairs. A sagging sofa. A dented metal gun cabinet.
We started our lesson by playing a game of hide-and-seek with the dogs. The officers took turns hiding in the rooms, while the dogs took turns finding us. Brigit was the quickest of the bunch, hunting down the hidden officer in mere seconds. It took one of the shepherds a full two minutes to find me lying under a rug in the makeshift bedroom, and I only think he found me then because he tripped over me. Clearly this dog would not be the class valedictorian.
“Round up your dogs and wait in the other room,” Hank said, pulling out a joint and a Baggie full of white rocks. “I’ve got some marijuana and crystal meth to hide.”
We retrieved our dogs and stepped into the adjacent room. One by one, Hank invited the K-9 teams back into the search area. Brigit and I were last.
Hank grinned as Brigit and I stepped into the room. “I’ve made your search particularly challenging. Want to see what my star pupil is capable of.”
