Jewel of a Murderer

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Mostly my vast storehouse of data and critical thinking acumen,” Rogers said.

  “You’d be nowhere without me, kid,” I said to clarify.

  “You’re just jealous,” she said.

  I refused to comment. Nothing like living and working alongside a computer with an attitude of obvious superiority. I doubt if the world would understand even if the world knew what I tolerated. Technology is the buzzword nowadays for all things innovative and wondrous. Right. They should spend a few days working with Rogers.

  That had been our Labor Day conversation. It was now several days since that occasion and Rogers had calmed a bit. I was slowly coming to terms with Uncle Walters’ recent innovations. I had no problem with other people texting. Their life, their phones, their time, their nimble fingers or thumbs. Blessings on all the technologically perceptive folks of planet earth. Give me up close and personal experiences and I’m euphoric. That is, if I’m ever euphoric about anything. I do my best to remain balanced – don’t jump too high and don’t sink too low.

  Sam moved from the couch to the kitchen. I could hear him lapping loudly at his water dish. Sleep must make a dog thirsty. His lapping sounds caused me to think back several days to the Northside Park incident, and my encounter with Jaz Connell and his claim on Sam. It now seemed rather strange to me – such a strange encounter with a man who had seemingly lost his dog several years prior.

  “Andy,” I said aloud to myself. “Not even remotely fitting.”

  Sam’s large head appeared at the threshold of the kitchen doorway. Our eyes met. His ears were erect. His stare was penetrating. Something was on his mind, but I had no idea what it was. Penny for your thoughts, friend.

  “You left because of the name?” I said to him, halfway expecting a verbal response. Okay, maybe hoping for some confirmation.

  He trotted over to my side of the couch and stood next to me still maintaining eye contact. It was as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words. He rested his head on my lap, but his eyes remained intently focused upon mine. I wished he could speak.

  I considered my handling of that situation with Connell and the claim the man made on Sam. I had no doubt that at some time in the past, Sam had belonged to him. I also had no trouble understanding that Sam had been mistreated by this man. Did that justify me in taking the dog as my own and not offering any compensation to Mr. Jaz?

  The fact that Wineski arrived on the scene and took away his person of interest in some recent robberies had some bearing on my thinking. I had no issue with myself over that side of the incident.

  I suppose my conscience was bothering me about Sam, the dog. Perhaps I did in fact owe the evil man some money. Fair is, after all, fair. I’ll contemplate some more on that. In the meantime, Sam remains my dog for the present and any part of whatever future there be for this female investigator and her dog. You can take that to the bank.

  “You ever find anything on Jasper Jaz Connell?” I said to Rogers.

  “Have I reported any such findings to you?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Then I have found nothing. If and when I shall find something, I shall be diligent and report the same to you. In the meantime, I shall continue my never-ending search for said character and all relevant information about him.”

  The cell phone rang. Wineski’s name appeared on my small screen.

  “You have something on Mister Connell?” I answered.

  “You must be clairvoyant.”

  “Some days more than others.”

  “It don’t work like that,” he said.

  “I must have an intermittent dose of it.”

  “Yeah, you wish. We have sufficient evidence to charge Mister Jasper Connell with one of the robberies. A couple of witnesses from that picked him out of line-up. Trial is set for first Monday in November. Could send him away for a few years, third strike thing. You happy?”

  “About Jaz and sending him away?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Not so much. I hardly had time to get to know him.”

  “You can come by and visit.”

  “I might have to. My early childhood conscious is bothering me about Sam.”

  “So, his claim was legit?”

  “I think so. Sam knew him anyway and said as much.”

  “You commune with dogs now?”

  “Just this black one. We connect really well.”

  “I can only imagine. Well, if you can’t rationalize stealing the man’s dog, then come on down to the precinct and give him some money. Better hurry. He won’t have time to spend whatever you give if you wait too long.”

  After Wineski abruptly ended our conversation, I thought back to the first time I encountered my beautiful black Lab. It was nearly eight years back. I can’t be precise, but I think that’s close to the time. I was jogging the streets of Norfolk – mostly around my apartment area – but nothing like a normal routine. My goal was to run ten miles and I varied the route each time out. Some habits can get you killed if you’re too regimented. I’m anything but that.

  As I recall I was about halfway to my goal that day when I was joined in my fast-paced trek by this large, black dog. He seemed to come out of nowhere, running alongside of me. After a couple of miles, I slowed my pace some so we could talk. Back in those days I didn’t have running companions. One can’t be too certain as to whom one can trust. I needed more information. Nothing like trotting along the streets of Norfolk all the while engaging an oversized black dog in conversation. Call me crazy, if not imaginative.

  “You got a name?” I said to him through regular breathing by that point.

  No response. He continued to run in stride with me.

  I slowed even more. “You from around here?”

  He slowed as well. Still no response to my questioning.

  Since he was non-communicative, I decided to speed up and finish my regular workout routine. He kept pace with me. He kept pace with me all the way back to my apartment building. I was surprised and glad to have the company despite his reticence with dialogue.

  The jogging canine keeping pace with me was a striking animal to say the least. He was black from head to toe with the singular exception being his caramel-colored eyes that could stare straight through a person if you would bear to look at him directly for any length of time. I knew little of dogs, but I guessed that he weighed something over a hundred pounds. I would learn later that he carried around one hundred twenty pounds as easily as I carry my own weight. Strong, beautiful, alert, and non-communicative. These were the makings of a potentially strong male friendship.

  “You need to go home, friend,” I said through my now heavy breathing in front of the building I called home. After a minute or so my normal rhythmic breathing returned.

  He sat down on his haunches and looked around. He seemed to be canvassing the area as if he might be checking to see if he had been followed. How would I know what he was looking for? He could have been on the dodge from the law.

  “You on the run from something or somebody?”

  He ceased his canvassing and looked directly at me. The stare. His beautiful amber eyes seemed to emote in silence. Despite his lack of the verbiage needed for dialogue with a human, he communicated something. I was new to this canine-human relationship, so it was hard to know precisely what he was saying.

  “Well, I seem to have hit upon something that resonates with you. So, if you’re trying to get away from someone, then you can stay the night. I don’t have anything resembling dog food, but I have grub you can likely eat. If you’re so inclined.”

  I climbed the three steps to the outside door of my apartment building and gestured to the dog. He bolted past me and headed straight to the elevator. He seemed to know intuitively that I lived on one of the top floors. There were only four floors in the complex, but I give him credit for knowing that I didn’t reside on the first one.

  We rode the elevator to my second-floor apartment i
n silence. He seemed at ease and calm in light of the fact that I was still a stranger and he had no way of knowing what kind of person I was. I could have been worse than the one he was likely running from, if that was the case.

  He walked ahead of me once the elevator door opened and headed straight to my apartment door. He sat down and waited for me.

  I should have been surprised at this, but since dogs generally have a keen sense of smell, I decided to reserve my astonishment that he had chosen the correct apartment door. Besides, stranger things than this are part of my world. I live with a computer named Rogers with artificial intelligence.

  I unlocked the door and he entered ahead of me. He inspected the apartment as if he were a Secret Service employee protecting some high-level government official. After his thorough run-through and his decision that all was safe to stay a while, he returned to the living area and sat down on the rug in front of my aging sofa. Expectations met or at least tolerated.

  I moved to the kitchen and found a couple of plastic bowls that might suffice for water and food. After filling the first with tap water, I proceeded to rummage through my small refrigerator to seek out anything still safe to consume which a canine might actually eat. I had some three-day leftover lasagna that was close to its expiration date, so I nuked it for a couple of minutes and placed it in the other bowl. I left them in the kitchen for my new acquaintance to find if and when.

  I headed for the shower and a change of clothes.

  When I returned to the living area, the black Lab was asleep on the rug in front of the sofa. I don’t mean one of those dog-type-faking-it naps, he was out cold and breathing heavy. Imagine that. Trust was in the making. Both of the dishes in the kitchen were empty. Water lapped up completely except for the spillage on my floor, and the food container appeared spotless, no remnants.

  I smiled as I remembered that initial getting acquainted time for Sam and myself. I figured that he would be around for a day or so, and then he would likely amble off in search of more promising relations and cuisine. My work usually kept me away from all social contacts except for those related to investigating the underbelly of the world. It also kept me away from the kind of food a dog might enjoy, to say nothing of appreciate. It also inhibited most meaningful relationships.

  The next few days were fairly much like the initial encounter. He slept and I kept him supplied with water and actual dog food. I broke down and bought a five-pound bag of some off brand canine cuisine. I didn’t think he was planning to stay for much longer, so I didn’t want to invest too heavily in the expensive variety. He drank the Norfolk water and ate everything I put in his dish. He never complained, I’ll give him that. Whatever I offered, he accepted, seemingly with gratitude. He drank and ate twice daily. Rogers did some research on caring for canines.

  He went through the five pounds of dog food in two days. I gambled on my next trip to the store and bought a thirty-pound bag. Maybe that would last him for a couple of weeks. Maybe.

  We also achieved plenty of exercise. I jogged in the mornings and the dog ran with me. This became our standard routine – jogging, breakfast upon returning, and then he’d go back to sleep after sleeping through the night. I paid attention to his most treasured habit – he slept for most of the time.

  After a week of this kind of early negotiating, I finally had a case to work. That meant I would have to either take him with me in my small car or he would have to remain in my apartment alone. Since I had no idea how long I might be out (I was thinking hours if not days at this point), I decided it would be best if he rode with me.

  “You need a name,” I said to him as he sat upright in the passenger seat peering out the windshield as if concentrating on our location or wondering about our destination. Maybe he knew geography.

  My job was taking me across town to a crime scene.

  “I suspect you have a name but since you’re not going to tell me what it is, I think it best if I give you another one. You good with that?”

  He turned to look me directly in the eyes as if to say, “Your call here, lady.”

  His gaze returned to the front of the car as we sped across the city of Norfolk towards Virginia Beach. Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Dog.

  “I’m a detective, so naturally I am influenced a lot by some of the great detectives both real and imagined. One of the old ones, a favorite of my dad’s from years back, was Sam Spade. Whattaya think about Sam as a name for you?”

  He turned to face me once more, yawned, then looked back out the windshield as if it might not really matter to him what name I gave him. He seemed unaffected by the information as well as the suggestion. I decided to go with that name.

  “Well, since you have shown such a roaring endorsement of my idea, we’ll go with it, for the time being. Your name is Sam.”

  He stared straight ahead without so much as a hint of a reaction. This might be the shortest male relationship I have ever had, and I have had some really brief ones in my history. It had already lasted a week, ahead of anything I could remember.

  “I think the name actually works rather well in this instance,” I said as I looked straight ahead trying to be as unemotional as my companion did. “Spade usually represents the color black or can, from time to time,” I mused aloud for him. “It also is the name of a tool for digging. Since you are colored black and no doubt enjoy digging from time to time, and you are partnered with me, an investigative type who likes to dig around to find the reasons behind stuff, then, well, you get the connection.”

  I was positive that he followed my solid reasoning. Or maybe my imagination was running wild. Truth was, it was good to have someone to talk with besides Rogers.

  I stopped at the red light and looked at him. He turned and moved slightly, just enough to get closer to me and lick my face. Wow. Emotion. Wet emotion.

  “Well, that’s a sign. Not sure of what, but I take it as a positive. I will assume, until you say something to the contrary, that you approve of the name Sam.”

  His eyes returned to the front of the car and the light turned green.

  Chapter 3

  That was how my relationship with Sam began. I smiled as I recalled his casual responses to my inane chatter with him. I still believe that Sam was the best name. He has worn it well to this day. If I had ever had any doubts about him, they were assuaged during our first case. He earned his new moniker during that murder investigation.

  I left the Norfolk police force and had gone private as an investigator four years prior to Sam’s arrival. I loved my former boss, T.J. Wineski, but the brass above him were more than I could contend with. Wineski was direct and effective. The hierarchy was obtuse and nominal. I have a hard time suffering fools gladly. Not one of my most endearing character traits. I figured they were not going anywhere. Slice that sentiment any way you please.

  I quit and went private. Except for Uncle Walters’ contributions to my life’s work, it was not the best financial decision I had ever made. Satisfying in so many non-money-making ways, being one’s own boss has its downsides. Clients did not flock to my doorstep. The upside was that I had more time to read for pleasure and drink coffee. I consumed coffee and books with abandon between clients.

  Sam was asleep on the rug in front of the couch the morning that Wineski called soliciting my help. Despite the fact that I was now in my fourth year since my resignation from the police force, Thomas Wineski still used me from time to time to help with particularly sticky cases. One of the men who moved into Wineski’s department after my departure was William McGrady. Wineski’s department was the Violent Crimes Unit in the Detective Division under the auspices of the Norfolk Police Department’s Investigative Service.

  William “Bill” McGrady was a sourpuss of a man who had been a police detective too long. I had little direct contact with him prior to my leaving the force, but my impression was that he was a surly man most of the time. My opinion was that McGrady was doing the job for the wrong reasons. He was hanging
on until the Norfolk authorities would either encourage or force him to retire. The longer he worked, or so he would say far too often to those around him who tolerated his complaining, the more his retirement would grow. Money seemed to be his operating modus. I could say his love of money, but that might make me sound more biblical than the truth would allow. Think accumulating money here. Not the best kind of motivation for this kind of work.

  At any rate, Bill McGrady had a case that Wineski had assigned him which was not going particularly well. Wineski called to see if I would come over and help out.

  “I have a new partner. Can I bring him?” I said to Wineski after he had invited me to work alongside Mr. Wonderful.

  “I thought you went solo.”

  “He suddenly appeared. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “He works for free, right?”

  “Food and shelter.”

  “Not a bad gig if you can get it. So, you have a live-in. What’s his name?”

  “Sam.”

  “Sam what?”

  “Sam Spade.”

  “You jest.”

  “Serious.”

  “Does he know he’s named after a famous fictional detective?”

  “Didn’t faze him when I mentioned it.”

  “Yeah, bring him along. The more the merrier. Doubt if McGrady will be thrilled to see you, though.”

  “He’ll be less thrilled with Sam.”

  “Tell him I said to deal with it. So, I need you to call McGrady and connect with him. As you say, a heads-up. Luck with that. At any rate, we’ve had some Barraud Park incidents of late.”

  “Of late?”

  “The latest murder occurred two days ago.”

  “And the other murders?”

  “Just one, two days before the second.”

  “So he missed yesterday?”

  “It would seem so. No dead body has turned up at the park.”