“If you girls want to pass this class,” their teacher said with an icy edge to her voice, “you best finish your quiz. There’s just ten minutes left.”
The announcement of time counting down caused a ripple of murmurs, and a flurry of pencils and erasers. Mrs. Neben then slowly looked among Abriella’s friends, continuing to sit impassive, and then raised her eyebrows at them. Abriella gave a nod and Vicky made a jab style punching motion toward the teacher. Mrs. Neben’s thick and overpainted lips broke into a broad smile to display coffee stained teeth. Then the classroom’s door opened and a lady from the administrative office whispered something in Mrs. Neben’s ear, trying to be respectful of the students.
Mrs. Neben replied to her in a whisper, “You don’t need to wait. She can go now. She’s all done.” And then she waved a hand at Abriella.
Vicky stared at her, a stare that said ‘you share everything with me so what don’t I know?’, but all Abriella could do as she got out of the desk and threw her bag over a shoulder was shrug and shake her head. In the hallway, she didn’t get any more information. Just an instruction to follow along. Her mind ran the gambit of possible issues, from her parents late on paying a bill or parking by the house instead of the commuter lot like she was supposed to. Then she thought maybe Mrs. Grant wanted to talk to her about finding Ollie in the fixture since she’d already gone home the day before. That would make sense. She raised her head some and squared her shoulders.
It wasn’t until she approached the administrative office with its glass wall where she could see the police sergeant that her imagination became unbounded. Her confident stride melted away and the herd of butterflies in her stomach took flight. He didn’t have the look of a disheveled patrolman. His shirt was pressed with sharp creases and the shoes shone with polish. The man’s hair was short, and he was clean shaven. A few wrinkles around the gray eyes said he was older, but he was clearly getting in a lot of barbell time. His cold demeanor gave a sense that one was being judged, and likely falling short of some high standard.
“Sergeant Barker, this is Abriella Harper. You can use my office,” said the gray haired lady as she gestured toward a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs.
He nodded at her, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Harper. Thanks for taking time to come talk with me.”
Like there was a choice, she thought. But she smiled politely anyway, and entered the side office first as the lady should. Subconsciously she began to select the guest chair, yielding the power position to him. But then she rallied and caught herself. Blowing away the quiz gave a surge of insolent confidence. She was a Fox Ridge Girl, after all. Abriella proceeded behind the desk flashing a wicked smile to the back wall. She pulled out the chair to sit down, not waiting for the sergeant to do the same first.
“What can I do for you, Officer? I don’t want to be late for my next class. I presume you’ve already talked to my parents.”
The hardened police professional before her seemed slightly taken aback. He rocked side to side a couple of times while gathering himself, and then pulled back the guest chair and sat down with feet flat on the floor.
“Yes, Ma’m. I talked to your dad briefly about fifteen minutes ago with Mrs. Grant. I offered for him to be present during our conversation, but he said he was too busy at work and your mom was likely just getting up from second shift.”
She briefly upturned the palm of her right hand, “Proceed then.”
He cleared his throat, glanced down briefly and then pulled out a notebook from his breast pocket.
“Miss Harper, I’ve been told you may have had interactions with a man trespassing on campus and he may be of interest to our case. Mrs. Grant said he might have helped you with a geometry problem?” His voice faded off because the last part of the sentence sounded ridiculous and he was clearly creating a blank spot hoping she’d jump in and start talking.
“I’ve employed a graduate of West Point, Kelton Jager, to help me with some school work. That much is correct.”
“No, this would have been a homeless guy. Dark hair with olive skin. He attacked Mr. Muench with a steel rod.”
“I saw Helmut this morning as I drove around the perimeter road and he seemed his usual self, performing the morning horse chores and such.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Mr. Muench is fine and the suspect is in custody. I’m trying to learn about his movements last night before the attack. When did you see him last?” asked Sergeant Barker leaning forward with a pen on his notebook.
“Mr. Jager came to our study hours at my friends’ house yesterday evening. I have no other adult male acquaintances outside of school staff,” she replied and then asked, “How is it an elderly man who uses a cane is ambushed by a thug with a steel rod and then is at work the next morning like nothing had happened? And Mr. Jager’s name seems contrary to the ethnicity of your suspect’s description. Are you sure you have all your facts straight?”
Sergeant Barker closed his notebook without writing anything down and leaned back in his chair with eyebrows knitted together. Then his eyes seemed to focus on her again. Abriella felt her resolve and edge melting inside, but held still trying to keep up a good front.
“Thank you, Miss Harper. That’s sufficient for now,” he said standing up. “I’ll call again if anything additional comes up.” And then with a quarter turn he departed the office.
Abriella closed her eyes, let out a breath and smiled. She’d stood up to the questions of a powerful and authoritative man and held her own. It felt liberating, like a baby bird who’d made its first flight and realized its entire world had just opened up. Like she felt when she’d earned her driver’s license and roared away in the car completely by herself. She was becoming an adult, and she liked it. Maybe, she was even ready for a man.
Grabbing her bag, Abriella hurriedly left the administrative office to go find her next class.
Sergeant Jim Barker strode toward his patrol car with long powerful strides, despite joints aching from multiple automobile accidents over the years in the line of duty. He didn’t bother to acknowledge the desk lady as he thundered on by and flung the school’s front door wide. Skipping every other step, he made it down the landing to the parking lot and sat down behind the wheel of his cruiser.
“Westburg Command this is Sierra 1. Do you have a twenty on McFife?”
There was a pause, and then Temple’s shaky voice came on the radio.
“Sierra 1, Unit 4 shows at the end of Stirrup Cup Road by the Westburg Hunt Clubhouse. Do you want me to relay anything to him?”
“Negative, Command. Sierra 1 is leaving Fox Ridge School and will be there in person in two mikes. Out.”
Barker felt the sweat dripping down his temples as the car swayed on its suspension rounding the turn onto northbound Full Cry Road. Something just wasn’t adding up right. He’d proceeded confident in the facts his officers had presented, blind to the gaping hole in the story. Until some of that hole was filled in, there was no use talking to anyone else. McFife’s written report outlined alleged events, but a sixteen-year-old girl had just effortlessly eviscerated it. He stole a quick glance at the clock and saw the morning was gone. Every time the radio crackled, he feared it would be the chief calling him in to explain events when his mental picture of what had occurred was obviously incomplete.
Stirrup Cup Road was deserted, but in a minute he was through the tree lined road to where it opened up into the rolling pastures by the clubhouse and kennels. Many years back, they’d brought their department patrol dog here for a “blessing of the animals” ceremony one spring. But when the dog retired, the city wouldn’t find the fifty thousand dollars to replace it. There just wasn’t enough of the types of crime here that dog’s helped in to justify the expense. Jim looked over at the brick columns and wrought iron gate. There was a stone in there somewhere for him. Just a small engraved river stone, paid for by the uniforms all chipping in. Jim Barker missed the dog. A lot more than he would miss the departure of some
of his current roster.
Barker noted McFife’s vehicle parked in the woods, and got out.
“McFife!” screamed Jim Barker. The penned hounds started barking and baying, destroying the peace and quiet of the fixture. He turned around to glance back at the kennel building, and then gave a long hard look at the dogcatcher’s truck. The damage to the driver’s side door was obvious. He grabbed for his radio.
“Unit 4, this is Sierra 1 over.”
There was nothing but static so he tried again. And then again.
“Sierra 1, this is Unit 3. Reading you loud and clear.”
It was nice of Murphy to answer that question, that he indeed was broadcasting and was being heard. But no answer came from McFife.
“Command, get me a fix on Unit 4. Not the car I mean. See if you can fix his cell phone.”
Rather than possibly spoil the scene, Barker returned to sit down in his patrol car. Asking the cell phone carriers to locate phones use to be a laborious process due to privacy concerns. But the phone they were looking for right now was the property of the Westburg Police Department and procedures for validation of credentials was well established. Jim Barker hadn’t been sitting in his car for very long when Johny Temple’s voice crackled on the radio.
“The transponder is showing nearly due north of town, above the Full Cry hairpin. I tried giving him a ring, but it goes straight to voicemail. I can try the radio if you like,” offered Johny.
“Yes, do it,” replied Sergeant Barker.
The base station was all the way in town, but it had both more power and a taller antenna than the sergeant’s patrol radio. It was possible it could reach McFife when Barker could not.
“Unit 4, this is Westburg Command,” came the radio over and over.
After four attempts, Jim keyed his push to talk button, “Okay, knock it off. I’m going out to the hairpin.”
Where Full Cry Road, which circled around the northeast sector of town, turned sharply south to go on to connect to Main Street at the flashing light in front of the bank, the local cops called the hairpin. It was really just a sharp turn, resulting from a change of plans and funding when a second northern bypass about town became uneconomical to complete and local politicians didn’t want to end up with a road to nowhere. The recommended speed for negotiating that awkward turn was only fifteen miles per hour, and frequently ignored by drivers traveling a wide sweeping road with light traffic. There were plenty of yellow diamond signs warning of the impending hazard, but they were too often ignored. The result was the fire department getting to practice using their jaws of life once again on a car crushed by turning over multiple times. Any meaningful fix would require seizing a couple pieces of private property to relax the degree of bend, and then finding the road funds. It would take years. Until then, emergency services would routinely respond to catastrophic one car accident scenes.
Just before the hairpin was a small gravel country road, Gone Away Lane, heading north to some old cattle farms which shared the access. Barker took a right to follow it, slowing as the road surface changed and the small rocks pelted inside the wheel wells. A few minutes later he saw a man walking by the rusty strands of barbed wire fencing that lined the roads.
Sergeant Barker keyed his radio, “Command, Sierra 1. I’ve Unit 4 in sight.”
Johny Temple came back quickly, “Do you need the squad?”
It would definitely be good protocol, but he didn’t want the situation widening by involving other city departments if he could help it. At least until he had verified what had gone on. In the end, he might even be free of Bobby, the union unable to save him. But not yet, because things at the school hadn’t added up and Barker didn’t want to start something that would go too far beyond him to manage when he didn’t yet know all the real facts. His ex-wife was right. That was her problem, of course, but he was a control freak. Once he knew everything and he was in the clear, then he could spill the beans.
But the radio was recorded, and this would likely be played later if all that came to pass. He needed something to stand on when his decision was second guessed later by armchair quarterbacks. Barker stared at the downcast figure gingerly picking his way down the fence line in a rumpled uniform.
“Negative, Command. He’s walking well and just smiled at me and waved.”
CHAPTER—17
Kelton Jager and Helmut Meunch walked down the dusty bare wooden stairs from the small barn apartment to the aisle below. Over the humming of dozens of fans came the voices of girls, screaming to be heard, in an effort to converse with neighbors in adjoining stalls while grooming their horses. At the base of the stairs, Abriella and Vicky stood side by side to hold a foil covered paper plate together.
“Wow, don’t you look nice!” greeted Abriella at Kelton’s kakis and button down shirt. He still wore the same boots.
“Helmut sent me down to a thrift store after I exercised Azrael in the fixture. He wanted me to look a little better at the meeting tonight,” Kelton answered.
“Ja, even he can clean up a little. Remember, brushing your horse and wiping dust off your boots costs absolutely nothing,” interjected Helmut, never missing an opportunity to dispense a life lesson.
Kelton smiled, “So, hey, what are you girls up to? I thought you’d be riding.”
Abriella nodded her head toward Helmut and said, “We just wanted to let Helmut know how glad we are that he didn’t get badly hurt last night.”
Vicky piped in, “That’s right. You do so much for us, and we wanted you to know how much we appreciate it. The school and riding wouldn’t be the same without you. Even if you are sometimes grouchy!”
Helmut beamed, looking about with a big grin and replied, “I’m supposed to be grouchy. I’m the master trainer. Now,” he winked, “go cleanup those filthy rotted dog chews you call girths while Kelton and I go to this meeting. They are a disgrace to the sport.”
“Where’s Azrael?” asked Abriella.
“He’s taking a rest in Helmut’s apartment, watching my stuff to make sure Helmut doesn’t steal anything.”
“The filthy mutt is probably shedding hair all over my bed,” said Helmut as he accepted the plate. He peeled back the foil to show chocolate chip cookies. “My favorite, thank you. How did you know?”
Vicky blushed, “You always say it’s your favorite no matter what type we give you.”
Helmut nodded, “That’s why you girls are my favorite. You keep bringing cookies.”
Abriella piped in, “Kelton, can you do study hours after the meeting? There’s no geometry quiz, but there is other stuff. We can pick you up cause we’re going for subs at Full Cry Market.”
Kelton turned to Helmut who shrugged, “I was going to go to the hospital and visit anyway. I’m sure they aren’t keeping the old fox hunter drunk enough. Just get your useless dog out of my place when you get back. I don’t want to come back alone to him.”
“Yay,” cheered Vicky in a normal tone of voice, but raised her hands in slightly clinched fists and swayed her narrow hips in celebration.
A few minutes later, Kelton was riding shotgun in Helmut’s brown Volkswagen Golf holding the paper plate. It was hard to tell where the worn top color ended and the rust around wheel wells and pitted window frames began. Foam showed through the ripped vinyl seats and there were cracks in the dash from years in the harsh southern sun. It turned over, maybe a touch reluctantly but still with the first turn of the key, and there was the low throaty knocking of a diesel engine and a brief discharge of blue-gray smoke.
“How long you had this thing?” asked Kelton.
“I won it new, in the Hamburg Grand Prix. That would have been… 1977.”
Helmut hunched forward a little to see through the windshield. It was dirty with barn dust, and hitting the washer button did little to improve the situation. The dry-rotted wipers did more smearing than clearing.
“So you’re sentimental?”
“If it was a schooling mount, I probably
would have shot it long ago to spare it the misery. That damned German engineering just refuses to die.”
“What’s a ‘Grand Prix’?”
“A show jumping competition. Like those fences you helped me move and set in the outdoor ring. If you knock them they fall down and you lose points. Only higher, one point six meters high.”
Kelton did some quick engineering math in his head, converting the metric measurement to a few inches over five feet.
“And they sell enough tickets at horse shows to offer cars as prizes?”
Helmut shrugged his shoulder, “In Europe, football is number one sport. But horses is number two. We don’t have all those other childish games.”
They drove with open windows as the car predated air-conditioning being a standard option. They took Full Cry Road southward toward Full Cry Market, and made a right on the red light to go west on Main Street. Kelton caught a glimpse of the same girl working Scruffy’s ice cream, serving a trio of customers all holding dogs.
“Up here on the right is where I saw the blond girl exit,” pointed out Kelton. The brick building was tall and dark, in contrast to the bank which, after hours, still showed some illuminated windows.
Helmut nodded, “It used to be apartments. Expensive ones given the downtown location. But there’s not much ‘Arbeiter’ work downtown and the local farm labor usually lives on site in some way. Kind of like me in barn loft apartments or sometimes old trailer homes. Anyway, the rents wouldn’t support needed renovations and they couldn’t get higher from grocery stockers, cooks and dishwashers. The bank foreclosed on the landlord and evicted a handful of people still living there. It was a big deal in the newspaper, like a coalmine canary for a recession that never came.”
“Who owns it now?”
By Dog Alone: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 2 Page 15
