Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  I lifted weights for forty minutes, chopped and split firewood for thirty more, ran four, consecutive, six minute miles, and finished it off with a brisk jog through the obstacle course. I stood, bent at the waist, hands on knees, breathing heavy, getting my wind back. The sun was a bright yellow ball low in the sky, sneaking up on the tall buildings of Denver. Wiping a line of sweat from my brow I saw the house was in need of a new paint job. The Law of Entropy never rests. I pulled off my sopping shirt and walked around another five minutes to cool down.

  After that I went to the kitchen, took a couple of hot dogs from the fridge, sliced them into thin discs, plopped ‘em into a sandwich bag and went back outside.

  Training time.

  The breeze was coming in lightly from the northwest. In order to make the track more difficult I decided to start downwind. I faced southeast and tamped down the grass in a triangular pattern about two feet wide on each of the three sides. I dropped pieces of hotdog on the points of the triangle and started off at a good stride. I ran hard for a hundred yards, slowed to a jog, and dropped a slice of meat as I curved gently to the west. I jogged another fifty yards, turned sharply to the south and slowed to a walk. I like to mix up the turns as well as the pace so I can simulate different patterns that could be seen on a real track of a suspect. I continued south about sixty yards, dropped another disc of the hotdog, headed west again for fifty or so yards, then turned northeast back toward the house. When I was about thirty yards out, I dropped the rest of the hotdogs on the grass under my right heel — jumped as far as I could to the left — to show the track was ended, and then went to the house.

  I was sweating again and the gentle wind felt vibrant on my skin. The scent of pine and Aspen Daisy washed past me like perfume. I opened the side door to my garage, leaned in and called for Max. I have a large doggy door set in the lower half of the door that leads from the garage into the house. I waited for Max to come out.

  He didn’t.

  I called again.

  Nothing.

  I was about to call a third time when I felt that old familiar chill sweep through me. Of course it could have been the wind, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt the way it did when I was in Afghanistan during the war. The Taliban had set an ambush between two hills my unit had to pass through. We lost two dogs and three good men that day. The Taliban lost a lot more.

  I slowly turned my head and saw Max sitting behind me. He hadn’t made a sound.

  “You’ve got to stop doing that,” I said.

  He just looked at me.

  I shook my head, did a few shoulder rolls to loosen the tension in my neck and said, “Fooss.”

  He fell in beside me as quiet as a panther. We stopped twenty feet from the triangle. I put him in a down with the platz command and knelt beside him.

  With some dogs I use a fifteen or a thirty-foot lead when tracking, to help keep the dog right on scent, but Max was a natural and worked much better with little restraint. So I utilized the Canadian system when I trained him.

  No leash.

  In the Canadian system, the dogs tend to trail more than track, which is faster but less sure. The difference between trailing and tracking is that when a dog tracks it sticks its nose into each step, smelling from footprint to footprint. This is the surest way of staying on the track of prey. When a dog trails it smells the path of the prey, moving along at a much faster pace. As long as the scent is strong enough, this works very well.

  In Canada, where there are great stretches of rural area to search, trailing is ideal. In Colorado, trailing works well in some areas, but not so well in others. Scent dissipates far more quickly on asphalt and cement than it does on dirt or grass, and there is far less ground disturbance kicked up for a dog to smell in the first place. So, in the concrete jungle of downtown Denver, tracking would be very difficult, and trailing nearly impossible. In the city, area searches work best. But as soon as you get outside the big cities, where there are stretches of grass and dirt, interspersed with cement and asphalt, tracking rules supreme.

  I always start off my dogs tracking anyway, because it’s the hardest and most labor intensive for them. And, like people, dogs love to cheat. So if I began with trailing or area searches it would be much more difficult to get them tracking.

  With most canines, ritual is everything. There are different commands and hand movements for each task you want them to complete. For tracking, I usually have the dog lay down. Then I’ll kneel beside him and pass my hand in front of his snout, palm side down, and say zoek, the Dutch command for search. I tend to mix up the languages with my commands depending on my personal preference and so bad guys can’t figure out the code. But like I said before, Max isn’t much on process, so I just said, “Zoek.”

  Max sniffed around the area, bypassing each of the discs of hotdog at the tips of the triangle (designed to make the dog check all angles of the starting point before determining the direction of the track) and took off to the southeast at an easy trot.

  Pilgrim would have stopped and wolfed down every hotdog before continuing on. He’s a chowhound. But Max is driven neither by food nor toys, an unusual trait in his breed, and difficult for training. It took me awhile to understand that Max is driven by the hunt alone and the only time he gets excited is when it’s the real thing.

  I jogged along behind him, watching to see that he stayed perfectly on track. I needn’t have bothered. In fact, I could have just stayed at the house and waited for him to show up. He made short work of the track, never missing a step, and came to the small pile of hotdogs at the end and looked up at me as if to say ‘you’ve got to be kidding’.

  I said, “Sorry, it’s the best I could do. I’m fresh out of people for you to maul.”

  He belched and went over to a bush and lifted his leg. An image of Rodney Dangerfield floated in my mind. I shook my head, took a last whiff of nature’s perfume and went inside.

  I showered, shaved and dressed in olive green Dockers, with a black t-shirt and an un-tucked, beige, short sleeve, squared bottom Sebastian shirt. My S&W was in its holster, tucked beneath my shirt just to the right of the middle of my spine-bone, and my backup gun, a five shot Ruger revolver, wrapped around my left ankle. I carry a clip on, spring loaded Tanto knife in my right pocket, and a two-inch belt buckle blade that fits snugly between my middle two fingers when held in my fist.

  Other than that, I was unarmed.

  First order of business was to find Pimple Face. I’d gone to his house, or rather his mother’s house, last night, but he wasn’t there. I waited till twelve; he was a no-show. I looked at the picture on his license, Kevin Burbank; he was one of the very few individuals who actually look better in their driver’s license picture than they do in real life. A face only a mother could love.

  I put together a few sandwiches, some Dr Pepper and six bottles of water. I dropped it all in a cooler, sprinkled in a liberal layer of ice cubes, and carried it to the car. Max hopped in the back of the Escalade, looking bored. I drove to Aurora, parking back a couple of houses and across the street from Pimples. There was a small strip mall on my side of the street with a pawnshop, an ice cream place, a Dollar Store, and a dry cleaners. All of them but the dry cleaners were closed this early in the morning. An Asian couple worked behind the counter, setting the register and bagging shirts and pants and dresses. The woman, who’s age could have been anywhere from thirty to seventy, smiled and waved a hand at me. I waved back.

  Traffic was light, just a few cars moving through the side streets on their way to the main arteries that push into rush hour traffic forming the jams that urban Colorado has become famous for.

  A group of about six loitered around a covered bus stop, some of them smoking, two guys laughing and making gestures with their hands. I was too far away to hear the conversation.

  My watch showed it was nearly eight. I turned the radio on low, and settled in for the long haul. Most crooks don’t get up till late, usually early afternoon, but I
couldn’t take the chance, so here I would stay. I looked around for a coffee shop, but there were none in sight. I should have stopped at one on the way. Too late now.

  It was too early for soda, so I opted for a bottle of water and ducked down low in the seat in a semi-doze position. David Cook sang about his brother dying; I sang along under my breath. I’m not a bad singer; some have even said I’m pretty good. I’m not up for American Idol, but I can hold a tune.

  The house was old, early seventies, with a one-car garage. The grass was fighting a losing battle with the weeds. Three broken down cars were camped in the driveway, the last one spilling over the sidewalk. Another car squatted beside the curb. It was a rusted-out, brown, Mercury with no side mirrors and a gray primer hood and driver’s side door. The house sported a peeling storm door, the glass was broken out and its screen was torn and hanging from the frame. It stuck partially open, doing little to guard the front door; a hollow core wooden job with a hole punched low and left of the handle.

  RTD stopped at the bus stop and the group of six got on board.

  Sun rays slanted down over the treetops heating up the car. I flipped on the air conditioner.

  At eight thirty I called a buddy of mine with Aurora P.D. His name is Jared Darling and he used to be a K9 handler. He’s a sergeant in the Homicide Division now. He’s put on a few pounds since his K9 days. He’s bald, black, five-eleven and tips the scale at about three eighty. The phone picked up on the second ring. “Homicide, Darling.”

  “No thank you, sweetheart, is Jared there?”

  There was a pause. “That joke just never gets old with you, does it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where you been, gyrine? Lori’s got a standing invitation for you to come over for dinner.”

  “Chicken Kiev?”

  “Of course.”

  “Soon as this case is over, I’m there. You tell her.”

  He laughed and I could almost see his chins jiggling. “Oh, I’ll tell her.” He laughed again. Jared looks like Eddie Murphy’s character in The Nutty Professor and he’s about the nicest guy in the world. “You said case, which means this isn’t a personal call. What do you need?”

  “I’m sitting on a house over on Black Hawk. Could you run a plate for me?”

  “Just a minute, let me fire up my computer.” I heard keys tapping and a loud slurp that almost soaked my ear.

  I asked, “Are you drinking coffee?”

  “Ahhh, vanilla latte.” He smacked his lips.

  I shook my head. “Rats, I forgot to get some. Nothing worse than being on an early stakeout without coffee.”

  “Yes there is,” he said; I could still hear the tapping, “being on a stakeout with coffee and no place to tinkle.”

  “Tinkle?” It was my turn to laugh. “You’ve been spending too much time with the kids.” He and Lori had three; two boys, one girl; from seven to twelve.

  “Okay, I’m in. Give me the plate.”

  I read off the license plate of the rusted Mercury. I heard him tap the info into CCIC/NCIC.

  “So what’s the case?”

  I had to be careful here, if I said too much it would clue Jared in that an un-reported kidnapping had taken place. If that happened, he would be duty bound to do something about it. On the other hand, if he knew it was serious he would be more willing to help and come running if I called for backup. “It started as a missing person, but the kid turned up dead. I’m trying to find out who killed him.”

  “Murder?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “In my jurisdiction?’ His voice turned hard.

  “No. It’s a Lakewood case. But I think the turd on Black Hawk here might be involved.”

  “You need help?”

  I thought it over. “Not yet. I’m hoping he’ll lead me to someone bigger.”

  “You think there’s more than one involved?”

  “Yes, there’s more than one.”

  “Care to fill me in?”

  “Not just yet.”

  “Okay, but if you think you’re going to get involved in something, you give me a call before you get into it. You got me?”

  I smiled. He was so cute when he was serious. “I got you.”

  “I mean it, Gil, you take too many chances.”

  I heard his computer ding.

  “Okay,” he said, “comes back on an eighty-one, Merc, to a Kevin Burbank.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  “How much of this do you want?”

  “Wants, warrants, and criminal history.”

  “He’s got a misdemeanor warrant out of Gunwood for FTA on traffic, five hundred dollar bond, and his DL is suspended with two active restraints. On the criminal history side he runs a sheet and a half, starting with shoplifting and ending with sexual assault. Pretty nasty for a twenty-two year old punk.”

  “Great,” I said, “thanks. And I’m going to take you up on dinner.”

  “You better, and don’t get into anything without calling me. I mean it.”

  “I know.” I hung up. He’s such a worrier.

  A leanly muscular white guy jogged past, wearing red Marine Corps running shorts and a gray short sleeve t-shirt, dark with sweat. Probably a Jarhead stationed at Marine Air Control Squadron-23 on Buckley Air Force Base, which stretched for forever out on the far east end of Colfax. I had a few old Leather Neck buddies that worked out there from the old — old days when I was in the Corps.

  I called Sarah Gallagher down at CBI.

  “Gil Mason! As I live and breathe.”

  “Hi, Sarah.” She’s a sexy version of Roger Rabbit’s wife, the one who says, “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.”

  “I’m still single.”

  I grinned. “That’s because there’s no one worthy of your beauty.”

  “I can think of one guy that would be worthy.”

  “Lucky dog.”

  There was a pause. “You could be.”

  “Ha, I can’t even win the penny slots in Central City. You know my luck’s never been that good.”

  “Things change, if you let them.”

  “Not for me,” I said. “Not yet anyway.”

  She must have heard something in my voice because she stopped teasing and changed the subject. “You’re calling about the gum.”

  “I am, yes.”

  “Fred Monique dropped your name. Missing person case?”

  “Started out that way. It’s moved into murder.”

  “Oh — oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, me too. Were you able to get anything good from the saliva?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Sounds interesting.” Sarah is easily one of the top ten in the world at extracting, decoding and matching DNA. She could make a bundle working for a private firm. Why she stuck it out at CBI was beyond me.

  “It is, actually. I got a positive match, but when I ran it through CODIS it came back as a restricted file.”

  “Restricted? Why?”

  “Doesn’t say. In my experience that usually means a current or former governmental worker. Secret Squirrel stuff. CIA, FBI or some other alphabet soup agency.”

  Mr. Spock. That was good. If I could place him at the burglary, I’d be a step closer in pinning Shane’s murder on him.

  I asked, “Any way you can gain access to the file? Maybe get me a name?”

  “I already tried. No go. Too high up. You know anybody in The Department of Defense?”

  “As a mater of fact… I do.” I gave her a name and number. “Thanks, Sarah.”

  “Is there anyone you don’t know, Gil?”

  “No, but you’re the best of the best.”

  There was another pause. “I wish that were true. Look, if you ever want to try and change your luck, give me a call. Or, if you ever get… too lonely.”

  She’s such a teaser. “Thanks, Sarah.” I hung up. A few years ago, Sarah was raped in her apartment. A serial rapist the police couldn’t nab. This
particular rapist had the especially mean habit of coming back a few weeks or months later for seconds. This should have made him easier to catch, but he was very sneaky. Sarah called me before he could get back to her. I got lucky and caught him. It was messy. He managed to poke me with a knife a couple of times before I killed him.

  A silver, nineties Chevy pulled up to Pimple’s house. The horn beeped twice. It was the same car that followed me from Lisa Franklin’s; the one I took the trip down to Castle Rock in. And guess who was driving? Baldy.

  Pimples slammed the house door behind him and strutted to the car. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips and his hair was a mess. He didn’t look like a morning person. He got in the car and Baldy peeled out. I let him go a ways before following.

  I prayed they were going to where Tom and Amber Franklin were being held.

  23

  These boys were rank amateurs, they never checked for a tail or pulled over or even tried a wrong turn. They went straight to the drive-through at Del Taco, got their stuff and then sat in the car in the parking lot eating their food, drinking their drinks and smoking their cigarettes. Pimples ate and smoked at the same time. He even drank through a straw with a lit cigarette between his lips. When they were done, Baldy dumped their trash on the asphalt and Pimples stuck one leg out the passenger side window. One of them cranked on the stereo and a current screamo band, maybe Wolf:Speak or Too Close to Touch, poured from the car so loud that I could feel the pulse of the bass from across the street.

  They were waiting for someone. I waited with them. Forty minutes later a car pulled up next to them and two black guys wearing red and black and sagging pants got out. Bloods. They both wore their baseball caps to the side and one of them sported a lot of bling. The guy wearing the bling wore an oversized black Raider’s Jersey and red shorts. The other guy wore an un-tucked, sleeveless, red button up shirt that was unbuttoned all the way. He had prison tats running both arms, his neck and chest, and couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.