Jewel of a Murderer

by M. Glenn Graves

  Sam and I moved across to the other crime scene. We found the taped off area. I studied it for a few minutes without finding anything of note. Sam was once more scouring the trees nearby, sniffing and poking his nose into whatever was on the ground behind the trees.

  “You think you’re gonna be lucky enough…,” I said to Sam but didn’t complete my skepticism.

  His bark interrupted my doubtful suspicions. I joined him behind yet another white pine not too far from the second crime scene.

  Again, the dog had found two small indentions, both large enough for a person to make while standing in that spot for some time. I pushed my hand into the depressed pine needles in the indention on the left as I gently spread aside the needles. I found nothing. Then I checked the spot on the right. Once again, I uncovered a sparkling, fake gem meant to replicate a diamond, or so I imagined.

  “I think the killer’s clothing – maybe the shoes – is falling apart, Sam.”

  His singular bark led me to believe that he somehow or other agreed with my assessment. It was a guess of course. I was not as yet that conversant with a canine. I had no way of knowing exactly how those two sparkling items had found their way to the two different locations. I just have this thing about believing in coincidences. I prefer not to.

  I was still on my knees rubbing Sam’s head when McGrady approached us. I smiled at him. Sam stared, a not altogether friendly look.

  “Don’t tell me,” McGrady began.

  “Okay. I won’t.”

  Chapter 6

  I was sipping hot coffee while resting comfortably on my well-worn and outdated couch. Never been a slave to fashion or new furniture. Comfort first, style second. Maybe third or fourth. Comfort was the real ticket for me.

  Sam was sleeping at the other end of the sofa.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Rogers said to me. “You’ve been excessively quiet, love. What’s going on in that devious mind?”

  “Reminiscing about Sam joining us a few years ago.”

  “Any particular reason for such nostalgia?” Rogers said.

  “I suppose it was that Jaz character coming along and reminding me of the first investigation Sam and I worked.”

  “That would be eight years ago,” she said.

  “It would,” I said.

  “And that case still bothers you?”

  “Wineski asked me to come along and work with Bill McGrady. I suppose that was the unsettling part.”

  “And the fact that this Jaz guy shows up now and claims Sam to be his lost dog,” Rogers added.

  “Yeah, that may have something to do with it. Hard to believe that Sam has been with me …us, for eight years now. That’s a long time for a man to search for a dog.”

  “You doubt Mister Jaz’s claim?”

  “Can’t really do that. Sam has always been truthful with me. He definitely knew Jaz, so they had some connection years ago. I don’t think it was a close one.”

  “And this chance encounter with this Jaz guy has caused you to go nostalgic on me?”

  “Yep. Must be getting sentimental.”

  “So, tell me more about this William (Bill-the-fun-guy) McGrady.”

  “You’ve read my file notes on McGrady,” I said with assumed certainty. Rogers has read everything I have submitted to the hard drives.

  “Found some of your notes tucked away in an old file.”

  “Tucked away, huh? Interesting expression for a computer to have. And you just had to read them.”

  “Insatiable curiosity, I suppose. All things being equal, it was a rather sparse file of notes. You left much to my imagination.”

  “You could say that I didn’t want to feed your imagination,” I said.

  “But I’m relentless in the pursuit of data. If I am to assist you then I need to know as much as I can.”

  “And, to that end, you are downright nosey.”

  “You helped to make me what I am.”

  “Touché.”

  “So, what I know is that your old boss, Wineski, asked you to help Bill McGrady with the investigation of the Barraud Park Jogging Murders. I think that was the title someone gave the case.”

  “Someone in the police department. I used that title to keep track of my notes.”

  “Yes, I know. And Sam the Wonder Dog came into your life about the same time, so you and the dog worked with McGrady. I remember that Sam seemed to fall right into the investigative game you play so well,” Rogers said.

  “Yes, he adapted quickly. Without benefit of going to police training school.”

  “Like his master?”

  “More friends than master. I don’t think a dog like Sam actually has a master, not in the strict sense of the word. He has the ability to choose, if you please. If you prove trustworthy, then he stays around. If you violate that trust, he moves on. I’d say he is highly selective.”

  “You make him sound like an old-time western hero.”

  “He’s an intelligent, quick-thinking, and fast-acting canine. Smartest dog I’ve ever been around.”

  “My informed data is that he did help you on that McGrady/Barraud Park case.”

  My memory led me back to the investigation that was happening some eight years ago. Two joggers were killed in Barraud Park. We had determined that the first victim had been dragged close to the Lafayette River,9 but the attack had occurred near the tree-line in leftfield of the baseball diamond. The second victim had been killed closer to centerfield and that body had been dragged into the trees in the direction of the river. I determined that something had interrupted the assailant when he or she was moving the second victim. This interruption kept the assailant from moving the body all the way to the shore of the river as had been done to the first victim.

  We were sitting in Wineski’s office giving him a preliminary report. It was my preliminary report since I had only been on the case one day. Sam was lying next to my chair. McGrady was sitting at least two chair-spots over. He had moved the chair before he sat down. Wineski had noticed the shifting of his furniture.

  “You two okay?” Wineski said.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “Ditto, here,” McGrady said, unconvincingly.

  “She smell bad?” Wineski asked and nodded in McGrady’s direction.

  “Naw, it’s the damn dog. Don’t care for him.”

  Wineski raised himself so that he could peer over his desk to look at Sam. Sam raised his head, looked into Wineski’s eyes, yawned, and then looked at McGrady. He then put his head back on his front paws and closed his eyes. So much for Sam’s concern with McGrady.

  “Seems vicious,” Wineski said.

  “He attacked me.”

  “What’d you do?” Wineski said.

  “Never mind,” McGrady said. “I can tell I’m outnumbered.”

  “Did the dog help you on the case?”

  The question was addressed to McGrady. He hesitated in answering and I nodded in the affirmative.

  “Bill, did the dog help out?”

  “He went behind a tree to do his business and inadvertently discovered a possible clue.”

  “So, you’re saying you may not have had such an accidental – inadvertent, your word – discovery if Sam here had not gone behind the tree?”

  “Naw, that’s not what I’m saying. We’d a found it. It was in plain sight,” he lied.

  “The crime scene unit missed it,” Wineski said.

  McGrady looked away. He had nothing to say about that.

  “Is that what happened, Clancy?” Wineski said.

  “He’s the lead detective on this one. I’m just here to offer assistance. He knows what happened.”

  “You callin’ me a liar?”

  “Easy, McGrady. No one’s calling anyone anything. I just want to know the facts. Tell me about this possible clue,” Wineski said.

  “Not much to go on, but it’s about all we’ve got at present. Some kind of trinket. Plastic or something like it…a gem-like thing.”
<
br />   McGrady handed Wineski the plastic bag holding the sparkling diamond-ish trinket Sam had uncovered behind the first tree.

  “This could have been lying there, behind that tree,…for…what, years?” Wineski said.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but then, when you add the second clue Sam found, the clouds break apart a little.”

  “You have another clue?” Wineski said to McGrady.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the other trinket. He slid the plastic bag containing the fake stone across Wineski’s desk.

  “They appear to be identical,” Wineski said.

  “Tech people said they were,” I added.

  “And this was found where?”

  “Behind a tree near the first victim. Sam doing his business once more,” I said before McGrady could answer. It crossed my mind that Sam was actually doing our detective business.

  “You searching for additional info on these two little shiny trinkets?”

  “Tech people are doing that. They’ll let us know what they find,” I said.

  “Clancy, what do you think?”

  “Hard to say. Motive remains in serious question at the moment. The first victim was a female. The second victim was a male. Both single, lived alone. One jogged in the mornings, the other closer to dark in the late afternoon or early evenings. I’ve read McGrady’s initial report and there’s not a whole lot to go on. I do think that the killer wanted to put both bodies close to the river but…maybe not in the water. I don’t know. Hard to say. But something or someone seems to have interrupted the second body transfer. I’m guessing he was being dragged and then something or someone disturbed that procedure. Still, we have no witness coming forward to explain or to help.”

  “McGrady, any ideas?” Wineski said.

  “About what?”

  Wineski sighed heavily. It was his sign of obvious displeasure.

  “About the damn case. What do you think? Where is your head?”

  “I got nothing to add. Seems like your ace investigator here is Johnny-on-the-spot. Her and the wonder dog.”

  “What’s next?” Wineski asked, ignoring McGrady’s insults.

  Nobody said anything.

  “McGrady, what’s next?”

  “I thought you was talkin’ to her?”

  “You’re the lead detective. Talk to me.”

  “Neighborhood canvassing. Maybe the folks who live in the houses along Thistle Street saw something. Their backyards have a view of the ball field. Someone likely knew of the joggers. Maybe someone saw something.”

  “I thought you did door-to-door already,” Wineski said.

  “Canvassed Vista Street and a couple of places on Barraud Avenue.”

  “Clancy, you help with the canvassing.”

  “McGrady, after the canvassing, go back to where both joggers reside. Go through their places once more. We might have missed something. Take Clancy with you.”

  McGrady grunted and stood to leave. I stood and so did Sam. Wineski spoke to McGrady once again as he reached for the doorknob of the closed office door.

  “Take Sam with you, too.”

  I turned in time to see Wineski smile as he looked down at the stack of papers on his desk. Someone was having fun at McGrady’s expense.

  Chapter 7

  I drove McGrady and Sam back to Thistle Street close to Barraud Park. There was no way that McGrady was going to allow Sam to ride in his car. I suggested my vehicle before McGrady had the opportunity to throw a tantrum.

  “You start at that end of the street,” McGrady said as he pointed to the farthest distance away from our position. “I’ll begin down here.”

  Naturally.

  He was out of the car and headed towards his first house before I could object. I didn’t have any significant issue with this plan, but I figured it would have been better to go door-to-door together. I suspect he wanted some separation from Sam. Or me. Or both.

  I began on the west end of Thistle Street. At the first house, I decided it was appropriately named. When I told her that I was working with the Norfolk Police concerning the two murders in Barraud Park, she slammed the door on me. It was, of course, rude, but then again, I’m one of those hearty souls who has difficulty accepting rejection. Especially if I am innocent in my actions. Seldom am I completely innocent of anything, actions or otherwise.

  I knocked on Miss Congeniality’s door once more. In fact, I knocked three or four times, the last one being rather hard and loud. Something akin to pounding on Miss Sunshine’s front door.

  She opened it with a huff. It was an audible huff. Think unhappy person.

  “Can’t you take a hint?” she said to me through her gritted teeth.

  I wanted to growl at her. Sam was non-expressive. He appeared passive. He was seated on his haunches and appeared bored. He was staring at her quite intently, however.

  I figured it was hard enough to talk but trying to do so with one’s teeth gritted has got to be rough. Does gritting one’s teeth have some explicit meaning behind the gritting action itself?

  I smiled, knowing that my innate charm would win her out.

  I misjudged her strength of will and mean-spirited demeanor.

  “Apparently not,” I said after pausing for affect. I smiled, my best offer.

  “You must be an idiot,” she snarled.

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “Why are you helping the police?” she said.

  Aha, I reasoned to myself. I have broken the ice and she is willing to engage me in conversation. She actually heard something I had said. Again, I misjudged her resolve in making my work more difficult than it already was.

  “A friend of a friend,” I said. “May I come in?”

  “No,” she said tersely. “You and that dog stay right where you are. Say, does he bite?”

  She pointed directly at Sam with her left index finger. I hoped she wasn’t casting a spell.

  “He has teeth, so yes, I would think he could bite,” I was getting into the groove with her. But it didn’t seem to help my situation.

  “You know what I mean. You move over and stand between me and that animal.”

  I shifted slightly to protect her from Sam the vicious canine. Sam remained steadfast in his sitting posture, still staring intently at Miss Sunshine.

  “So, you got questions, ask them. Or get,” she said after I shielded her from a savage attack. It passed through my mind rapidly – do dogs have a sense of humor?

  What she lacked in charm, she had in brass with abundance. I could imagine that this lady would be a handful to wrestle to the ground and handcuff. But then again, the term lady might be an exaggeration. She probably had a skull-and-crossbones tattooed somewhere on her body. I could only guess where it might have been.

  “You know about the murders at Barraud Park,” I began.

  “Yeah, I ain’t dead yet, you know. I saw all of the police over there. I saw them carrying off those bodies, too. Helluva city we have.”

  “Did you know the joggers?”

  “Do I look like I jog?” she said, and I really wanted to answer that. It was, after all, a funny line for her to say. She stood maybe five feet. I’d estimate much less than that. Since I’m five-ten, I looked down on her and I had the feeling that she took exception to my height. She weighed in at one hundred seventy easy. That would be a conservative estimate, but I knew that I could have won some money if I had bet she was at least one seventy and counting. Think bowling ball physique.

  “They could have been some friends of yours for all I know.”

  “They were not my friends. I didn’t know either of them. I saw the woman first. She had been jogging longer than the man.”

  “So, you saw him jogging as well,” I said as a natural follow up to her statement.

  “Are you just stupid or do you have a hard time hearing things? Yeah, I saw the man jogging as well. But I got this here television set that plays a lot of stuff that is a heckofalot more ente
rtaining than standing at my kitchen window watching a woman and a man running around a ball field in sweatpants. Do you get my drift?”

  It’s funny how people reveal things about themselves in the course of such wonderful dialogue like the one Miss Spitfire and I were engaged in at that time. She was a hearty soul, an obvious fact. However, she told me more than she intended.

  “I did in fact catch your drift, as you call it. You didn’t know them, but you saw them now and then as they jogged around the field behind your house. You likely saw them when you took a break from the fabulous entertainment you found on television. They never jogged together, so you saw them one at a time as they circled the field. And they were wearing sweatpants instead of jogging suits. Is that about right?”

  “Nobody ever said that they didn’t jog together,” she snarled again. “And they didn’t jog only around the baseball field. If you’ll stop bothering me and go investigate like you’re supposed to, you’ll find that there’s a worn path at the edge of the woods over there and that joggers would go along that path, then veer into the woods, and then into the parking lot of the facilities, and then back onto the ball field. It’s about a mile and a half if you are so inclined.”

  Wow, Miss Information. Here I thought she was a couch potato and addicted to television programming.

  “And they ran it every day?” I said.

  “The two that were killed?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Most days, I reckon. Don’t rightly recall if they did it every day. Not my thing to watch them like some stalker. I have chores to do as well as my television.”

  “I bet you do,” I said cheerily.

  “What does that mean?”

  “What does what mean?”

  “Your sarcasm is insulting,” she said.

  “I meant no disrespect. You have been very helpful,” I said.

  “It wasn’t my intention,” she snapped, and the door closed rapidly once more. A mild slam of sorts. I waited a moment or two to see if the door hinges would hold.