So Everyman watched as the scene unfolded. He watched as the Dog Man came out with his golden retriever and figured they’d just found the girl. Everyman watched as the cadaver dog became agitated, began barking uncontrollably. He watched as the golden retriever charged across the street.
And he watched as the dog ripped into Nicky Champine.
So I guess that’s that, he thought after the ambulance carted Champine’s ass off to the nearest hospital. Everyman went on to work and spent the rest of the morning drinking tasteless coffee and staring at his monitor. He had no doubt that sometime soon the authorities would get around to popping open Nicky Champine’s rambler, and then they’d be in for one hell of a discovery. But it wouldn’t blow back on him as the Champines only knew Everyman by the absurd disguise he wore whenever he stopped by. He’d never shared private information or any information whatsoever about himself with them; he’d always worn his driving gloves when he’d visited, even while eating. And all the gifts he’d picked up for them had been paid for in cash and handled with the utmost care.
Too bad about the kid, though. When he thought about it, Everyman knew the boy was five times as smart as his old man. Hell, it was only the kid that kept him from killing his fuck-up clown of a father that very first evening.
Everyman shook his head. It was really too bad about the kid.
But by lunchtime Everyman said screw it.
And he went to get the boy.
Everyman stopped by his home long enough to don his hat and glasses, blowing off the mullet wig this time. As he drove slowly down the secluded lane toward Nicky Champine’s rambler, he tapped lightly on the brake. A squad car was at the house, a single officer knocking on the front door. Everyman turned into a neighbor’s driveway, backed out, and headed back up the street, away, and holed up in a coffee shop a few miles away from the Champine house.
Everyman knew the kid would never answer the door. And he knew if the cops had anything on the Champines, they wouldn’t send a single officer in a squad car. But it wasn’t only the police that made Everyman step back. One neighbor up the street had been out raking leaves, another neighbor was out front kicking a ball around with her two toddlers.
Too goddamn many eyes.
Not good at all for a man who lives in the blind spots.
Everyman went home. Lay on the couch, lost in thought. He’d get the kid out of the house under the cover of darkness. Make him know his father had been injured, was in the hospital, and, in a few days, when everything broke, the kid could watch the story play out on TV.
Hell, Everyman thought, maybe I can even get the kid to a dentist while I’m at it.
He made it back to Bridgeport at half past midnight and—what the fuck?—there was an empty F-150 parked across the street from the Champine house. Something nagged in the back of his mind and, as he wheeled his vehicle around, it occurred to him. The damned pickup looked suspiciously like what that dog handler had been driving at the crime scene this morning in Avondale.
Which meant cops.
It had to … but where the fuck were they?
Everyman parked where he had that first night—when he’d come to kill—on another block, and, with flashlight aimed at the ground, he cut through the woods, coming out on the edge of Nicky Champine’s back property. He tried the night goggles. Worthless. Then he heard a noise, some kind of fracas coming from inside the rambler. What the fuck, he thought for the tenth time, then reached down for his SIG 1911.
Guess I’ll be killing the Dog Man while grabbing the kid.
But then he heard sirens, getting louder, and he took a fast step back into the trees. He heard a commotion out front so he jogged through the undergrowth to get a better look. Two figures spilled out onto the front lawn. The one in front holding something … holding a limp dog. And then the street exploded with squad cars, one after another, and he took several more steps backward into the woods. There were so many lights now he didn’t need the night-vision goggles. He stood behind an oak and watched the scene play out.
He stood motionless, observing everything, right on up until they hauled the kid out in a body bag.
* * *
Can you feel me, Dog Man? Everyman didn’t get scared, not in the traditional manner, but he felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. It was … thrilling … invigorating. He smiled as he took another step backward, and then another. I think you know I’m out here, Reid.
Everyman wished he’d anticipated this late-night uproar so he could have brought a special treat for Reid’s pack of cadaver dogs—a little something he could toss into the yard for them to find in the morning. Just a little snack for them to enjoy, perhaps those green blocks of rat poison, perhaps crushed glass mixed in with hamburger. Or maybe ground chuck with strychnine.
Everyman turned from the trailer house and headed back into the woods. After a dozen cautious steps, he brought out the small flashlight. By the time he got back to his car, he had another plan in store for Mason Reid.
A plan filled with irony.
Everyman loved irony.
CHAPTER 17
Three days later Sue came home.
His absence had left a giant void in the household. There was no one around to keep all us peasants in line. I drove Sue from Sharon Rawson’s pet hospital and lifted him down from the passenger seat of the pickup. He shot me his Benito Mussolini expression, chin arched far upward and disapproving, as if to demand why there was no ticker-tape parade for him. Sue’s left side had been shaved into a buzz cut with a foot-long line of stitches marking where the knife had struck at his ribs and slid along his side. I had to admit Sue’s scar looked badass. So did Sue. He strutted, head held high, about the womenfolk as the assemblage mingled in my driveway, making sure they each got a good, long look at his injuries.
I’m glad they don’t have VFW posts for heroic dogs or I’d be driving Sue there every other night for bingo, dancing, and poker.
I continued Sue’s regimen of antibiotics—mixed with his dog food—plus an application of salve along his stitch marks each bedtime. Almost immediately I realized how exhausted my German shepherd was most of the time. Sue moved slowly, and lacked the get-up-and-go he’d always had before the incident. He didn’t care to take any walks, preferring to spend the days perched on the living room sofa staring at the TV. Sue didn’t—or actually couldn’t—struggle through the pet door so he trained me to slide open the screen door whenever he ambled over in order to head outside to take care of his business. Doc Rawson had warned me about this, about how Sue might take months to recover his energy … and how Sue might never be the same. This wasn’t surprising, not only due to the extent of his injuries, but Sue was the oldest of my flock; he’d turn ten in November.
No doubt he’d expect some kind of masquerade ball and fireworks to mark the occasion.
Sue drove me crazy going after his stitches, licking and scratching at the stainless-steel sutures. I finally gave up trying to stop him and placed his paws in booties and strapped the cone of shame around his neck. I hoped it would be a humiliating experience, and one that would at last teach him to keep from scratching at the sutures. Despite this, Sue still managed to look all regal, sitting with his back arched on the sofa as though he were Henry VIII wondering which wife to behead.
I like to think my German shepherd lived because of Doc Rawson’s veterinary magic or because he has moves that would make an NFL running back green with envy or because he’s too cantankerous to die, but I knew the truth. If it had been a full-grown man wielding that butcher knife in the Bridgeport rambler, the three of us would have been hauled out of Nicky Champine’s basement in body bags.
Last night I sat next to Sue on the sofa and scratched at his shoulder blades. “What do you think about retiring?”
He looked at me, and then turned his attention back to the ball game on TV. I continued to scratch at his shoulders as we watched the Cubbies strand three runners in the bottom of the eighth.
“Just give it some thought, Sue—that’s all I’m saying.”
They’d already removed my stitches; unfortunately, I looked anything but badass. I currently sported a thin white scar along the base of my throat a lover might question were she interested in bestowing a hickey; as usual, there were no such offers on the table. There also remained some discoloration on the skin around my right eye. Paul offered to bring over a tube of his wife’s concealer. I politely declined.
Although I’ve spent most of my late afternoons and early evenings teaching obedience classes, Vira and I made it to a handful of uneventful hunts. One was for a lost toddler in which we searched the acres of forest behind the child’s house. The trademark scent of human death is, of course, unique to human beings, which means that cadaver dogs can differentiate between human and animal remains. That said, Vira did drag me past an interesting array of dead critters during our lost-toddler search, but, fortunately, no human remains.
Thankfully, as it turned out, the child had been grabbed by her estranged father and, days later, was returned unharmed.
* * *
Paul stopped by after work for a quick beer before shuffling home where Sharla waited to fatten him up with a homemade meatloaf she’d tossed in the oven. Paul shared with the kids a handful of dog biscuits he’d no doubt lifted from CACC before joining me at the kitchen table where I had a cold Coors Light waiting. We watched as Delta and Maggie slipped out the pet door to play in the backyard and as Vira jumped up on the couch to watch TV with Sue.
“Sue’s on disability, gonna roll his 401(k) into gold or Alpo or something,” I said. “You got any prospects for me?”
“A new recruit for the cadaver games, huh?” Paul said. “No HRDs at the moment, unless you’d like a chubby Shih Tzu who farts like a dragon.”
“I’ll pass.”
Paul sipped his beer and kept looking over at Vira. “You bring her to see Doc Rawson?”
“Yeah, she did the checklist. Vaccinations—up to date, duh; no discharge from Vira’s ears or eyes; temperament—Vira’s a happy camper; there’s been no vomiting or diarrhea; and her appetite’s great.”
“You tell Rawson how Vira picked Champine out of a crowd?”
“She agreed it was extraordinary, but not that bizarre as Kari Jo Brockman had been held captive by Nicky Champine for over three months. He’d … done things to her—Champine’s stench was all over the poor woman—and the doc figures Vira caught hold of the scent.”
“So no extrasensory perception? Or spooky shit?”
I chuckled at how Paul and I thought alike. “Okay, just for fun I surfed the internet last night, and the closest thing I could find was an article on mediumistic sensitivity. It wasn’t about dogs, but, evidently, certain folks are highly sensitive and somehow able to serve as conduits for … psychic communication.”
“But communication with whom?” Paul asked, still staring across the room at Vira. “The dead?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you think any of this has to do with what happened the night they found Vira?”
“I just train dogs, Paul.” I tossed a hand in the air. “But that’s what she brought up.”
“Who? The lady cop?”
“That’s Officer Kippy Gimm to you,” I said.
“You talk to her again?”
“Not since the castration.” I’d shared with Paul what had occurred at my trailer home. How I’d asked Kippy out and was quickly shot down. Sad to say I’d been thinking about Kippy Gimm a lot lately, and it still stung like a son of a bitch. “Too bad there’s not a call for carny geeks anymore. I could be the guy who eats his own shit.”
“First off, you’ve got to stop clobbering yourself,” Paul said. “Second off, welcome back to the land of the living. Sharla and I have been worried about you this past year, since the—well—you know.”
“The divorce?”
“Yes, the divorce,” Paul said. “Last year, Mace, you got reclusive, all turtled up and withdrawn into yourself. And I know what you were going through had to be about as much fun as rubbing your kidneys against a cheese grater, but the Mace from a year ago would never have asked a girl out much less said ‘Boo’ to her. But now look at you—asking some hottie out.”
“She blew me off, basically said no way in hell.”
“I can’t remember how many times Sharla said no before she realized how suave and debonair I was and finally caved.” Paul finished his beer and stood. “You should really call that lady cop. Pretend it’s about Vira.”
Dear Officer Gimm,
I want to update you about Vira’s progress as she continues her training as a human remains detection dog, but first I must apologize for asking you out in such a boorish manner. It was inappropriate, and I deeply regret that there is now a tinge of awkwardness between us.
I stared at the email and then hit delete. Paul was right, I’ve got to stop beating myself up. I had felt a connection between Kippy Gimm and myself, and I went for it. Sure, maybe I came across more like Peter Lorre than Cary Grant … so sue me. Sorry I tipped my cards. It’s not like I had walked over and snapped her bra strap for Chrissakes.
It was nearly midnight and I was following Paul’s advice and contacting Kippy. However, the card Officer Gimm handed me contained a phone number as well as an email address, and I was taking the chickenshit route. I decided I’d send an email regarding Vira’s recent training activity and not bring up anything weird that may or may not have occurred between us when my cell phone rang.
I recognized the number—of course I did—as it had been sitting on the table in front of me. A lump the size of a bowling ball caught in my throat, but I answered anyway. “Hello.”
“Remember our talk about Vira?” Officer Gimm said without salutation.
“Yeah.”
“How she’s special in a certain manner?”
“Yeah,” I repeated.
“I’ve got a test for her.”
CHAPTER 18
I’d never driven through Koreatown at one in the morning before. Vira and I cruised along Lawrence Avenue, nicknamed Seoul Drive by my fellow Chicagoans due to the Korean-owned shops crowded together along both sides of the street. I took a right on Pulaski and then let the navigation app on my phone guide us through the remainder of the route in order to arrive at the North Mayfair address of the bungalow Kippy had texted me. Somehow, I massaged my pickup into the only spot available—across the street and two doors down. Perhaps a newborn could slip through the space between the F-150’s bumper and the Subaru BRZ parked in front of me.
Two squad cars were parked in front of the bungalow in question. Between the police cars sat a nondescript white van with no signage, which I assumed was owned by the body removal company contracted by the city. Eventually, after the detectives and forensic specialists finished their chores at the scene, the van would be used to run the victim to the ME’s office for the mandated autopsy. I also assumed a couple of the cars congesting the street in North Mayfair at this hour of the night were unmarked police cars utilized by detectives working out of CPD’s 17th District. In fact, as I let Vira jump out of the passenger seat, I noticed a couple of shadows talking in the front seat of the BRZ I’d parked behind and figured them for plainclothes.
Showing up at an active crime scene, where there’s not a smidgeon of ambiguity as to the location of any human remains, and not having received an official request for my attendance, is not in my wheelhouse. I looked at Vira, wondered if we should jump back into the F-150 and get the hell out of town before a nearby detective started posing questions I couldn’t answer, but then I spotted Officer Gimm on the bungalow steps staring at us, so we headed in her direction. Regretfully, I fitted the choke collar around Vira’s neck and clipped it to the leash. I wanted to keep any of her potential overenthusiasms to a minimum—didn’t want to risk a repeat of the Nicky Champine attack—and, as we cut between the body removal van and one of the CPD squad cars, I got a bit o
f a jolt when I spotted a figure sitting quietly in the rear seat, arms folded behind his back.
Vira and I crossed the sidewalk as Kippy came down the steps to meet us. She placed a hand on Vira’s head in greetings, and took two minutes to whisper a truncated version of the evening’s events. The guy in the back of the squad car, Tomás “Tom” Nunez, had blown a point-two-five, but he’d not been driving and that wasn’t the reason he was cuffed in the back of the patrol car. The reason Tom Nunez was cuffed in the back of the patrol car lay on the floor of the kitchen inside the nearby bungalow in a pool of her own blood.
The two-story bungalow belonged to Mrs. Nicomaine Ocampo, a Filipina who’d migrated with her husband, Dr. John Ocampo, to the United States—first to Oahu and then to Chicago—in the mid-1990s. Her husband had been a surgeon at the Northwestern Orthopaedic Institute but died young after a short bout with pancreatic cancer, leaving Nicomaine—without family in town—to raise their infant son, John Ocampo Jr., all by herself. She’d purchased the bungalow outright with the proceeds from her husband’s life insurance policy and worked long hours assisting a local tax accountant, but her primary focus over recent decades had been single-parenting her son.
John Jr., now in his early twenties, had been living on his own since he left for college, so Nicomaine meets Tom Nunez at a social gathering—neighborhood get-together or something—and they hit it off. Nicomaine has been lonely for such a long time that it became a whirlwind romance. Within months they’re married. At first John Jr. is happy for his mother but soon comes to realize that she is Nunez’s main source of support. Nunez is an occasional manual laborer, more often than not on unemployment. Nunez supplements his unemployment checks by selling marijuana and hits of speed. John Jr. informs the police that he’s embarrassed to admit having purchased marijuana from Nunez in the past, and that, based on conversations he’s had with his stepfather, he believes Nunez sells a lot more than he lets on. Nunez had been arrested twice previously for selling drugs, albeit small amounts. He’s not Scarface or anything that dignified but does manage to keep a number of people happy with a variety of recreational drugs.
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