Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

“Number twenty-two.”

  She scooped up the bag and raced outside.

  “Hey, lady,” a voice behind her said. “Dixie.”

  She stopped at the side of the Hummer and spun around. “Yes?”

  A thick man in khaki shorts, turquoise golf shirt, and white tennis shoes approached. “I thought that was you, Dixie Mulholland, right?”

  “Yes.” Most people she met because of her work were nice, ordinary people, maybe a little star-struck and just wanted to say hi—ask for an autograph or photo, then there was this type of moron.

  “Hey, listen Miss Big Shot, just because you’re on TV don’t give you no right to take cuts in line.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir, but I’m in an awful hurry—”

  “Hey, we all got places to be.”

  Dixie turned back to the Hummer and reached for the door handle.

  “Don’t turn away from me, bitch.” The man put his hand on her shoulder.

  Steel lost control; barking, snarling, and rocking the Hummer as he bounced up and down clawing at the door panel, his head thrust out the window.

  “Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?” The man back-peddled, stumbled, and fell on his butt.

  “That’s my dog.” Dixie stared down at the man. “And he’s hungry.”

  She slipped into the Hummer and opened the bag of burgers, unwrapping them and hand feeding Steel. He gobbled them down one after the other.

  “That’s it, big fella, eat ’em up quick; the networks are waiting for us.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It soon became clear the location of the news conference would have to be moved from the second floor briefing room to the multi-purpose amphitheater on the first floor. News vans double parked outside the police administrative building. Electricians ran thick cables across streets, down hallways, and into the amphitheater connecting television equipment, satellite feed apparatus, and power generators.

  The crowds gathering outside the venue included concerned citizens, victim’s families, and the simply curious. The networks tied in to the local feed and were ready to interrupt normal broadcasting the minute the proceedings began.

  Field reporters, Internet news correspondents, and print journalists filled the amphitheater to over capacity. Those without a seat stood in the aisles. Still photographers crouched down near the front of the stage while banks of television cameras lined the back wall. Noise from countless conversations buzzed on in an endless drone.

  Detective Marco Ramirez and Special Agent Ed Miller positioned themselves out of the limelight, standing against the wall in a side aisle just to the left of the stage. They may as well have been invisible as the crowd’s anxious eyes kept constant vigil on the podium on stage, front and center, underneath an enormous American flag.

  “This is bullshit,” Miller said.

  Detective Ramirez did not say anything; he couldn’t. He felt empty inside—even worse, he felt betrayed. From the minute he’d heard Sheriff Hendrickson order the arrest of the old man they’d found at Claremont Drive, he voiced his opposition. Not only did his protests fall on deaf ears, the sheriff made it clear Ramirez should “put a cork in it.”

  Miller glanced around the auditorium and shook his head. “This is a sideshow. You and I both know that old man’s not physically capable of committing murder—not the way those victims were killed.”

  Ramirez nodded. He scanned the auditorium, his eyes squinting against the harsh glare of television lights. “It’s not like Dixie to miss something like this.”

  “Maybe you’re right, maybe she is psychic. She’s not here because this isn’t news, this is a joke.”

  A man in a dark suit eased his way behind the podium. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he tapped on the microphone, “please settle down. My name is District Attorney Steven Walters. Thank you for being here. Sheriff Gale Hendrickson has a statement to read.”

  The sheriff, dressed in full uniform complete with jacket and cap, marched from the wings, stage right, followed by two uniformed captains and four lieutenants. The sheriff stood behind the podium while his men positioned themselves evenly on either side. He took a drink of water. “If I can have your attention, please—can I have your attention?”

  An eerie hush covered the room like the uneasy calm in a crowded ballpark during a moment of silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the sheriff said. “I have a brief statement to read. Please hold your questions until I’m finished.

  “At approximately 1900 last night, Metro received a call about a disturbance at a residence just south of Las Vegas. A patrol car was dispatched immediately. Upon arrival, my officers noticed indications that a much more serious crime had taken place. The officers reported to their supervisor, and the supervisor called me. From the information I was given, I directed the Special Task Force investigating the recent series of homicides in Las Vegas to report to that location. Evidence was found at the scene linking it to a series of homicides committed by, what the press have termed, the Werewolf Killer.” Chatter sprang up from the audience. Sheriff Hendrickson raised his voice. “A suspect was taken into custody at the scene. At this time, the suspect has been charged with four counts of murder—”

  Chaos erupted. Reporters stood and shouted questions, each voice louder than the last. Camera shutters clicked and the front row of correspondents edged closer to the stage. Sheriff Hendrickson put his hands out again, as if parting the Red Sea, and waited for his demand to be met before continuing.

  As the noise died down, a reporter shouted out, “Is this the Werewolf Killer? Sheriff, do you have the Werewolf Killer in custody?”

  A heavy silence gripped the amphitheater. The assembled body of journalists and media personnel waited, breathless, hoping and praying for the words—a sound bite, a headline.

  Sheriff Hendrickson took dead aim at the bank of television cameras near the back of the room and announced in a clear voice, “The Werewolf Killer is in custody.”

  Another explosion of prattle gripped the crowd. Each and every reporter had a question.

  The sheriff put his mouth on the microphone, shouting over the pandemonium, “One at a time, please, I’ll answer your questions one at a time.” Shrill feedback from the amplifier sliced through the air, washing over the assembly in a blanket of white noise. The sheriff straightened, pointed to a reporter, and calmly said, “Question?”

  “Sheriff Hendrickson, Hank Delaney, KTLN, Phoenix. Can you give us the name of the suspect in custody?”

  “That information is being withheld.”

  “Why?” Delaney shouted as reporters barked out again. “Why is the suspect’s name being withheld?”

  “At this time, we’re not certain of his identity. As is standard procedure, he’s been booked into the county jail as John Doe. Due to the nature of this case, we’re doing everything we can to quickly ascertain his identity. Records are being thoroughly researched, and the FBI is cooperating fully with my department. We should have the suspect’s name in short order.”

  “Does that mean you might have the wrong guy?”

  “No, not at all. Make no mistake, the Werewolf Killer is off the streets.”

  “Sheriff,” the shouts for attention grew louder. “Sheriff.”

  Sheriff Hendrickson pointed to another reporter.

  “Sheriff Hendrickson, Carol Melody, KLVA Las Vegas. Why are you not revealing the location of the residence?”

  “At this time, we have a full team of investigators going over every inch of the property. Our CSI team is being assisted by federal authorities. There is a plethora of evidence still being recorded. As you can imagine, we don’t want any of it compromised. The location of the residence will soon be revealed.”

  “What evidence did you find at the residence?”

  “As I mentioned in my statement, the evidence is compelling.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Carol Melody said.

  The sheriff cupped a hand over his mouth and turned to his righ
t.

  “Sheriff, can you be more specific?” Carol Melody repeated, her voice carrying surprisingly well over the din.

  “Hey,” Agent Miller said, nudging Detective Ramirez and pointing to the right side of the stage, “look over there.”

  Ramirez glanced where Miller pointed. There, postitioned in the shadows of the wings, stood Sonny Russo. Russo nodded and the sheriff nodded back.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Agent Miller said.

  Sheriff Hendrickson turned back to the microphone. He sucked in a drawn-out breath and through a dramatic exhale said, “We found body parts.”

  Bedlam tore through the amphitheater.

  “Shit.” Agent Miller pushed off the wall and marched up the side aisle to the exit followed by Ramirez. They slammed through the amphitheater’s main double doors in unison.

  “He just pulled the pin on this case,” Miller said, stopping in the middle of the hallway to face Ramirez. “Is he the dumbest fucking cop in the world? He gave away our hold-back evidence—just threw it away. I’ll grant you, John Doe knows something about the murders, hell, he probably even knows who did it, but arresting him doesn’t mean the killings are gonna stop. And when did Sonny Russo start calling the shots?” He turned and continued his furious march.

  “Where’re you going?” Ramirez said.

  “I’m gonna go get drunk; this case is closed.”

  “You’re not serious, are you, Ed?”

  “What do you mean? Hendrickson invited us in. When the crime’s solved, the FBI generally packs up and leaves.”

  Ramirez put a hand on Miller’s shoulder. They stood toe to toe in the empty hallway. “This case is not closed, and you know it.”

  “As far as Hendrickson and Russo are concerned, it is.” Miller held out his hand. “Watch your back, Marco. When the shit hits the fan on this, the backwash is gonna be brutal.”

  Ramirez released the agent’s hand. “Backlash.”

  “What?”

  “It’s backlash, not backwash.”

  Miller smiled. “Smart ass. Good luck. I’ll be back for the trial if there ever is one—that should be interesting.”

  “What do you mean if there is a trial?”

  “This guy’s a patsy. Remember Oswald? They’re never gonna let this go to trial.”

  Sheriff Hendrickson’s voice echoed down the hallway over a loud speaker, “Once again, the Werewolf Killer has been arrested. It’s all over.”

  Miller turned and headed for the exit. Ramirez took the stairs back to the task force bull pen. The aroma of cinnamon and roses caught his attention.

  ****

  Dixie made great time out of Primm—for about three miles. That’s when she hit a wall of California traffic headed north to Vegas for the big fight weekend. Vehicles lined up in an endless procession ahead of her, disappearing in a shimmering mirage. After pounding on the steering wheel and shouting at the drivers in front of her, she pulled over the white line on the right side of the highway and parked. Countless other drivers did the same, either to save gas or prevent their engines from overheating. She did it to calm down—and to listen to the news conference on the radio.

  “Why wouldn’t he say it was Russo? Something strange is going on.” Something that made her rethink her next move.

  Her plan of revealing Adam Steel to the world on live network television had to wait; more than that, it was probably a bad plan to begin with. After all, the presence of a Giant Wolfhound would, in and of itself, mean nothing; the real story—the worldwide exclusive—was the transformation, not the being. And the logistics of that happening would be tricky—mainly because she didn’t know the exact moment the change would happen.

  But more than the ill-conceived plan bothered her. The nagging voice inside her head, a voice that began as a whisper from the moment she’d found his drawing book, wouldn’t let her rest. A voice that said, Adam placed his faith in you; Steel has become protective of you—you’re probably the only one he’s ever trusted.

  Dixie pounded the steering wheel again and turned to face Steel. His ears were cocked, eyes wide, his tongue slipping in and out of his mouth in a rhythmic pant. “Why me? I mean, I’m a reporter and you came to me. Of all the people you could have gone to for help…” Although, she couldn’t think of any off the top of her head. “You’ve only got yourself to blame for whatever happens. I never promised you I’d keep your secret, did I?”

  Steel snarled at her hissy-fit, his stare glued to her in almost human scrutiny.

  She took some deep breaths, her focus technique, to calm down. It wasn’t helping—that nagging word “trust” rolling around in her brain.

  She patted him on the back of the head, rubbing her fingers through his coarse gray hair, making gentle fists to grab handfuls of the stuff. He seemed okay with human touch, in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. She smiled. “Nobody’s ever been nice to you before, have they? As a dog, I mean. No one’s ever petted you.” She ran her hand along his back and over his head. “It’s okay, big fella. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. Besides, what kind of an owner would I be if I paraded you in front of the cameras?” A mini panic attack shook her—the kind that comes on in a heartbeat and then lingers like a bad smell. “Is that what I am?” she whispered. “For God’s sake, am I your owner?”

  Adam was a great guy and an extremely protective dog, but owning him? That sounded so wrong. Of course, if he remained a dog—whoops, canine—and never changed back to human, maybe she could keep him. What? He wasn’t a lost puppy looking for a home. “I’m a Giant Irish Wolfhound,” she imitated Adam’s voice. Then, in her own voice, “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

  Steel blinked, opened his mouth wide, and yawned.

  “You are so damned cute. Let’s go home. We’ll figure it out.”

  Dixie merged back onto the highway and let the miles drift by, her internal dialog continuing between what a reporter would do and the right thing to do. Traffic had thinned out enough to allow them to travel the speed limit. She followed the long ramp to the lanes marked 215 to West Summerlin. Six miles later, she exited, passing by the Red Rock Casino. She turned left onto Charleston at the light and stayed in the left lane, maneuvering the Hummer on auto pilot as she got closer to home.

  Steel bounced out of his comfortable position in the passenger seat, bared his teeth and let out a wild series of barks.

  “Whoa, what is it? We’re almost home, settle down.”

  Steel’s fur stood up on the back of his neck and he howled. He kept up a continuous stream of barking and growling.

  “Okay, no joke, Steel, what the hell is it?”

  After negotiating a couple of quick rights and lefts, she finally reached the gentle upgrade that led to her gated community. Then she realized the reason behind Steel’s strange behavior. A few cars ahead of them, entering the gate opened by the friendly afternoon security guard, drove a yellow van with the words “wash me” spelled out on the rear window. The same vehicle she’d seen in the driveway at the house on Claremont.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Detective Ramirez sat at his desk in the middle of the now unoccupied task force bull pen, his gaze fixed on the giant map and its colored pins. He scanned the pins, noting how they were all grouped in bunches across the valley—all except one: the red pin at Claremont Drive.

  He didn’t like things out of place—too messy. In a game of what doesn’t belong, the pin on Claremont was the obvious choice. Hundreds of man hours had been spent tracking the various leads phoned into Metro, and one anonymous call had blown the case wide open. It just didn’t make any sense. Something was off.

  A voice boomed from across the room. “What the hell was that?”

  Ramirez swiveled around in his chair and stood up at the sight of Sheriff Hendrickson marching straight toward him.

  “Guess what?” the sheriff said. “I was gonna get you up on that stage today to thank you, publicly, for the work you and the task force did on this investiga
tion. That’s the kind of thing people kill to get on their resume. But you were gone. You and Miller left me hanging. Why did you just wander off in the middle of my briefing?”

  “Your briefing?”

  “What kind of a message do you think that sends? We need to show a united front.”

  “Sheriff, with all due respect, John Doe is not our guy; that old man couldn’t kill a lite beer. Don’t you get it? This is all gonna blow up in our faces when another victim turns up.”

  Sheriff Hendrickson hesitated for a moment. “That’s not gonna happen, because he is our guy. There are body parts all over his property—his prints are all over the house. He’s clearly not a victim. He had access to everything. What more do you want?”

  “A confession would be nice. So far all we’ve got is circumstantial.”

  “We’re still building a case, but it looks pretty solid to me. Others have been indicted on much less, and you know it.”

  “I’ve known you a long time, Gale. We go way back. We’ve been through a lot.”

  Again a short hesitation followed by a booming voice, “Cut the crap. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

  Ramirez paused, but only for a moment. “If you’re so sure that old man is our guy, why didn’t you release a photo of him? Why did you keep the address a secret? Hell, why didn’t you even give the task force a heads up before you booked him? I tried talking to him—I don’t even know what language he’s speaking. He’s feeble, weak. There’s no way this is our guy.”

  “That’s your opinion. When those body parts start getting matched up to the victims—”

  “That’s another thing. You haven’t even gotten the lab results back yet on the body parts. Sheriff, why the rush to judgment?”

  “Because Las Vegas needs to be done with this Werewolf Killer business. The city of Las Vegas needs closure.”

  Ramirez took a moment. “This is bad police work, Gale. It’s too soon to—”

  “That’s enough, Detective.”

  “I know you’re under a lot of pressure to close this case—”

  “Watch what you’re saying.”