Sacrifice

by Michael Arches

  I took the house portable with me while I brushed my teeth. Got that done before my callback.

  “Here’s what we know so far,” the dispatcher said. “Several reports of a single shot a half-mile north of you in the Snowmass Valley Subdivision. Leona Foster on Wildcat Circle thinks a bullet whizzed past her house. Chaz is six minutes out.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to take a quick shower then head over, too. The excitement is starting early lately.”

  -o-o-o-

  Boomer and I ate a quick breakfast. Then, I checked in with April. No more shots or signs of trouble.

  I fed the animals outside. While I was doing that, I got a call from our newest deputy, Chaz Newton. He’d replaced Simon, who’d gone as bad as any cop could go.

  “Here’s the deal, ma’am,” Chaz said. “Liam Eklund believes he saw a large black hound attacking his goats and killing one.”

  In the background, a man said, “Giant black hellhound.”

  “Have you checked for a dead animal yet?” I asked.

  “No. We’re about to go outside.”

  The sheriff’s office regularly received complaints about loose canines attacking livestock. Usually, the attacks came from coyotes or loose dogs, but occasionally wolves. Those big toothy canines from Wyoming sometimes ventured our way and even farther south. I was personally fond of Canis lupus, but most ranchers on the Western Slope hated wolves, or any other animal that harassed their herds.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there in a few.”

  Chaz gave me the address and hung up.

  Boomer and I hopped in my Jeep and drove for a few minutes. Willow’s ranch had been the last parcel of a much bigger ranch that had once covered a big chunk of this valley. Most of the land had been sold off years ago and became this subdivision. Some built vacation homes here, and others lived year-round. Many of the full-time residents kept livestock, especially horses.

  Chaz’s SUV was parked in front of one house, lights flashing. I knocked on the door with one hand and held Boomer’s leash with the other.

  I knew many of the residents in this area, but not the Eklunds. A fifty-something woman in a night robe answered. She looked at me like she’d expected someone else to show up at five a.m. Like maybe a milkman.

  “I’m Jane Eklund. Didn’t expect to see the sheriff herself. Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?”

  For the last month, I’d been explaining to people that Randy was actually the sheriff, but it was a lost cause. “Nice to meet you. Wouldn’t say no to a cup.”

  She motioned me inside. Boomer and I followed into the kitchen where she had a pot brewing. Out the back window, I noticed two people walking around with flashlights in the dark. Before I joined them, I decided to get the real scoop from the lady of the house.

  She poured us both coffees, and we sat at a small table in the kitchen. After savoring a few sips, I asked, “So, what’s going on?”

  “We heard the goats bleating. Liam loves those damn things. Swears we’ll get rich on cashmere wool. Yeah, right. Truth is, we’re already rich. Anyway, our bedroom looks out the back. He got up to check. Started cussing out a dog that was killing a goat. Liam ran downstairs for his rifle. I followed, trying to calm him down. I didn’t think it was a good idea to shoot in an area where houses are so close together. We retired here from Short Hills, New Jersey. No shooting allowed there, for damned sure.”

  She was right to worry, but I’d talk to her husband about that. “Liam said something about a giant hellhound. Did you see it?”

  She shook her head. “He dashed out the back with his deer rifle, and the next thing I know, I heard the shot. Our neighbors are probably going nuts. One of them doesn’t like the smell from the goats anyway.”

  Having grown up on a ranch, I hardly noticed the bouquet from animal manure anymore. But these folks were surrounded by lots of multimillion-dollar houses. Their neighbors were probably a lot fussier than me.

  “This is Western Colorado,” I said, “not suburban New Jersey. Law says you got an absolute right to raise certain kinds of livestock, including goats. No more than twenty animals in this subdivision. It’ll be hard to get richer on a herd that small.”

  Jane lifted her hands in resignation. “You know how stupid men get, I’m sure, when it comes to making a buck. And they keep him out of my hair.”

  I thought of Salieri and his endless greed. “Just between us hens, women are so much more sensible.”

  After I spent a few more minutes filling in the details, Boomer and I headed out the back door. A 30.06 bolt action rifle was lying on a teak table on the back deck. I turned on the light on my phone. The backyard definitely had goat droppings, so I watched my step.

  The livestock milled around, bleating. One of the nannies was dead. Its throat had been ripped open. Blood covered the ground next to it. No wonder Eklund had been pissed. I kept a tight grip on Boomer to keep him from getting too close. He loved the smell of blood.

  Two flashlights moved around near a back fence, a hundred yards away. A sheltie ran up to us, barking like mad. My mutt and I ignored it.

  When I reached the two men, I introduced myself to Liam. He was of average height, balding, and pudgy. His face was red, and even though it was nippy out, he was only wearing house slippers and boxer shorts.

  Chaz was playing it cool, the smart move. He was slim for an officer but tall and fit. Had run several marathons over the last several years. I asked him, “What have you found so far, Deputy?”

  “Definitely a big canine back here that killed the goat, and Muffy is the only dog the Eklunds own.” He pointed at the sheltie. “Several large pawprints—one clear and fresh.”

  He motioned for me to follow and showed me a soft spot on bare ground next to a six-foot-high chain-link fence. I shined my light where he pointed. Sure enough, a big-ass canine paw. Bigger than Boomer’s, and he weighed a hundred and thirty pounds.

  My mutt sniffed the area frantically, a sure sign he smelled something unusual. Unfortunately, he didn’t talk much this early in the morning, so I had no idea what he knew.

  “See,” Liam said, “just like I told you. A giant black hellhound. Fucker had red eyes. Had to be a demon.”

  Although I’d spent ten years patrolling this county, no one had yet told me they’d seen a hellhound. I figured Eklund’s imagination was running wild, but pissed off folks didn’t like being disbelieved. I had to chill.

  “You probably already explained this to Deputy Newton, sir,” I said, “but it will help me to hear it directly from you. Your wife says you spotted the animal from your bedroom then ran downstairs and outside with a rifle. How close did you get to it?”

  “From upstairs, I saw it clamp its jaws on my goat and shake. Then, I ran downstairs and grabbed my gun from the closet. As soon as he spotted me step outside, he turned from his kill and bolted. Only got the one shot off.”

  As was common with agitated witnesses, he’d answered a different question than the one I’d asked. “So, how close?”

  He froze for a moment while thinking. “Maybe a hundred yards.”

  No wonder he’d missed. Hitting a black target running in the dark at a hundred yards would be damned tough.

  Time to lay down the law. “Did you happen to think about where your bullet might go, sir? Several of your neighbors called and one said it whizzed right by their house.”

  “Got a right to protect my property.”

  I nodded. “But that doesn’t include actions that endanger others. But, as long as nobody was hurt, and given that you were trying to save your herd, I’m willing to let that mistake go—this one time. But you aren’t out in the middle of some large, empty meadow.”

  He flushed red. “Sorry, got caught up in the moment. Won’t happen again.”

  Angry folks with firearms were a constant problem for law enforcement. Even so, most law enforcement officers in Colorado were very pro-gun. The Second Am
endment was particularly sacred on the Western Slope.

  But Pitkin County had always been a liberal enclave and much less tolerant of careless shooters. “Tell me more about the predator. Maybe it was just a big black dog.”

  He pointed at my face with two fingers spread open. “From upstairs, the thing looked straight at me. Blazing red eyes. Definitely a demon. As God is my witness.” He put his hand over his heart and looked skyward.

  Didn’t know what to make of that. God did not send me a private message vouching for Eklund.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’ll definitely be on the lookout for the animal. Do any of your neighbors happen to have large dark-colored dogs?”

  Liam pointed to the north. “The Walkers, two houses down the street, have a Doberman. But I’m sure it wasn’t Roxie. This monster was much bigger, bulkier, like hellhounds are. And the Walkers don’t leave their dog out at night.”

  “Deputy Newton will speak with them anyway. Thanks very much for your help, sir.” I turned to Chaz. “Did you get good pictures of this print?”

  “You betcha, ma’am. Also added my pen to provide a reference for size.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Wait until seven to begin your canvas of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, you can help Mr. Eklund take care of the goat carcass.”

  I turned back to him. “Ralston’s in Basalt can butcher the animal. It’d be a shame to waste the meat. If you don’t want it, you can donate it to one of the shelters there.”

  He nodded. “Sorry for the trouble.”

  “We’re here to serve.” There wasn’t much else I could do, so Boomer and I headed into the sheriff’s office. The sun still hadn’t risen.

  -o-o-o-

  While I drank a second cup of coffee, I researched wolves on my desktop. They definitely came in black and got big enough to make the print I saw. The males averaged around a hundred pounds, but the largest one recorded in Alaska was one hundred and seventy-five. Most of the online articles I saw said it was almost impossible to distinguish a wolf print from an equally large dog’s.

  Didn’t know what to make of Liam’s insistence on red eyes. Wolves normally came with variations of brown or yellow eyes, but some were green. Certainly not red. And demons were well outside our department’s jurisdiction. For that kind of problem, we’d need to consult a priest or minister.

  As a cop, I was used to the occasional wacko case, and I wondered what Chaz would do with this investigation. He’d worked as a military cop in Afghanistan, but we were his first stateside job in law enforcement. He’d have to separate the truth from the bullshit, or rather goat shit.

  -o-o-o-

  At seven a.m., Boomer and I stood on the southern bank of the Roaring Fork River just west of Aspen’s town limits. We were now hunting for body parts instead of hellhounds.

  Below town, the river meandered through a broad valley. Linda and Jason showed up with kayaks. We agreed they would each float along one side of the waterway as it rolled along. Boomer and I would follow them in my departmental SUV and investigate any areas they couldn’t inspect closely enough from the water.

  I was skeptical we’d find anything, but wrong again, doofus. Linda found another foot and ankle combo, and Boomer sniffed out a section of the victim’s leg from midcalf to mid-thigh. Jason had success, too.

  By late morning, we’d worked our way west of Basalt, and I believed we’d found everything we could. I took the extra human remains to the coroner’s office, and Dr. Dan promised me he’d be ready by the end of the day to discuss his preliminary findings. He did say that all of the body parts we’d found were consistent with one victim, which was a relief. In the back of my mind, I’d worried that we stumbled across a mass murderer.

  Chapter 4

  Back at the office, I was reviewing some less than fascinating information about federal labor laws when Chaz dropped by my cubicle.

  “Got a minute?” he asked.

  I checked the time. It was shortly after noon. He was getting off his shift. My stomach rumbled. “Sure. How about we go get a quick bite? There’s a falafel place near here that’s not bad. We can talk on the way.”

  Boomer usually slept like the dead, but when he heard the word falafel, he bounced up. The three of us headed out.

  “How’d the hellhound hunt go?” I asked.

  He gave me an embarrassed smile. “I’m hoping this isn’t hazing for the new guy. I spent four hours trying to find the damned thing. No luck.”

  “Not hazing. I won’t tolerate it, or sexual harassment. Nobody’s entitled to lord over the new guy, not even me. Let me know if you run into any such problems. But here’s the thing about the canine—whatever it turns out to be, we can’t have loose animals, wild or domestic, harassing livestock. Ideally, we’ll figure out where the predator came from. It’s not a fucking demon. I know that much, so you can cross that possibility off your list.”

  “The thing is, Hank, nobody around there has a big black dog, except the Doberman. I talked to his owners. They keep the dog in at night, and I checked its paws. Too small.”

  “A loose dog could be from anywhere within miles. Lots of rural folks keep big dogs for protection, both for themselves and their critters. Coyotes are too small. And don’t forget the possibility of a large black wolf. I’d hate to run into one of those motherfuckers some cold and lonely night.”

  He nodded. “Didn’t have them back in Abilene. The only big black dogs I can think of are Newfies and Bernese mountain dogs.”

  I shook my head. “We had a few Bernies at our ranch. They all had big white splotches on their chest or face. Eklund would’ve noticed that. Newfies can be all black, but they don’t jump. Remember, Eklund had a six-foot-tall fence. We really might have a black wolf on our hands. Wait till the media gets a hold of that possibility. Folks will go berserk.”

  Chaz said, “If it’s a wolf, it could be halfway to Utah by now.”

  “Let’s hope. I think you’ve done as much with this investigation as you can, pending new information.”

  Because this guy was my first hire, I really wanted him to succeed. “Is everything okay on the job so far?”

  He grinned. “It’s only my third week, but everybody’s been great. Even the people I give tickets to are usually decent about it.”

  “That’s been my experience, too. Enforce the laws fairly, and you shouldn’t have any problems.”

  At the falafel place, I bought two, one for me and one for the mutt. I chopped his up with a knife, and it lasted for only a few seconds. Chaz ordered his with goat meat, which he developed a taste for in the Sandbox. I stuck with beef. I developed a taste for it growing up on Colorado’s high plains.

  While we ate, I told him about ways I’d learned how to live frugally on a deputy’s salary, a crucial skill in such an expensive area.

  -o-o-o-

  Before I knocked off for the evening, I walked over to the medical examiner’s office. The receptionist called Dr. Dan.

  He came out of one of their autopsy rooms and waved me in. “I finished putting her together. I’m certain on the gender because you found half of her pelvis. A slim woman in her mid-twenties.”

  It sounded like he was making progress.

  As I followed him, he said, “The smell is a little ripe, but you should see this.”

  The stench of death was actually suffocating. I tried breathing through my mouth, but that didn’t help much. I couldn’t understand how coroners were able to work around dead bodies all the time.

  “You managed to locate more than half of the woman,” he said. “Unfortunately, many of her parts have deteriorated either from being out in the weather or because of predation. I’ve arranged her in correct anatomical order, but we have many gaps.”

  “Can you give me an estimate on her height and weight?”

  “For the height, I can be precise. Five-foot, seven-inches tall. Slim, so I would guess her weight at about a hundred and thirty pounds. Bru
nette with long hair. No idea of eye color. Caucasian. Based on her teeth, I’d put her age at twenty-three, give or take a couple of years. No fingerprints. Several of her limbs were broken around her time of death. Also, I found a skull fracture, but that may have been caused by throwing her remains over the cliff.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s a lot more than we had, but not enough to pick her out of the dozens of missing young women in this state alone.”

  “Yeah, it’s incredible how many young people disappear without a trace.”

  “Can you tell me anything about her health? That might help narrow down the list of possibilities.”

  “Nothing other than the injuries I just mentioned,” he said. “We don’t have any of her internal organs except a small part of one lung. The soft tissue tends to deteriorate first, and animals ate what they could.”

  “Any chance on DNA?” I asked.

  “We sent a sample to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, but they’re backed up, as usual. We asked for a rush, as usual. Of course, the chances of a hit are low. The data in the system mostly comes from arrests and military records.”

  That was a long shot but we weren’t blessed with much other evidence to help us identify the vic. “How about an estimate of when she died?”

  He looked up at the ceiling as though seeking help from a higher power. “I’m really going out on a limb on this. So many factors to consider. My wild-ass guess is that she died two months ago.” He paused. “That’s just between you and me. I’d never testify to that. Hell, I’m already sorry I blurted it out. Forget I said anything.”

  I couldn’t suppress a smile. “You ought to know better than to tell a cop something and expect her to forget it. I won’t hold you to it, and you’re still on my Christmas list.”

  “Damn, it’s coming on fast, isn’t it?”

  “Two weeks.” And I had no idea what to get for a woman who already had everything.

  -o-o-o-

  By the end of the workweek, no new evidence had turned up in the dismemberment case. Nor had anybody spotted the dog/wolf/hellhound again.

  The snow kept falling, and skiers kept coming. Every available room in the roaring Fork Valley was full again.