Nop's Trials

by Donald McCaig

  “Maybe I haven’t been looking far enough,” Mark said. “Maybe we should come over here. I got to have work. We need money for the baby.”

  Near Nitro, the Gauley River was lined with chemical plants: Du Pont, Westinghouse, Allied—plenty of big names. The valley was narrow, just room for road and river and chemical stink.

  The signs outside the Du Pont plant said NO HIRING TODAY. In different words the sign outside Allied Chemical said the same. You could read the signs right from the road, didn’t even need to slow down.

  Lewis couldn’t help himself, “Looks like the land of opportunity.”

  The tips of Mark’s ears got red. He said, “There’s other places. There’s work in Texas. Plenty other places.”

  They stopped at a traffic light. “I want you and Penny should stay with us,” Lewis said.

  “You got a funny way of showin’ it.”

  Lewis rubbed his chin. Resolutely, he kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them.

  A coal truck honked behind them. “Hold your horses,” Lewis muttered as he drove through the green light. “Man like that ain’t got no patience. No. I never been noted for patience either and sometimes I speak quicker than I should. Tell the truth, I didn’t think a thing of you when you and Penny landed on our doorstep. I feel some different now. I was used to bein’ the only man in Penny’s life.”

  They crossed the Ohio at Charleston and picked up the interstate. Rolling west. Mark fiddled with the radio but had no better luck than Lewis.

  “It’s pretty country once you get out of the mountains,” Lewis noted. “You done real good getting Lester Gumm to confess, the way you did. I been thinkin’. Me and Beverly, we got a few dollars put away. It isn’t doin’ any good sitting in the bank. We’ll help pay for the baby.”

  It was after 10 P.M. when they pulled the calves into their new owner’s barnyard. He hadn’t expected them until morning and was ready to go to bed. He’d want to inject them against shipping fever before he took them off the trailer. Tomorrow. That’s what he said.

  “Suit yourself,” Lewis said. “They’re yours now. If they was my calves, I’d unload.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Lewis said they’d unhitch the gooseneck. Tomorrow they had business in Monte Verde Heights, which was a suburb of Cincinnati. They’d be coming through again, headed north to Columbus. Mark’s mother was expecting them. Could they leave the trailer?

  “Sure thing. G’night.”

  They found a TraveLodge right outside of Lebanon. No Home Box Office or swimming pool, but they only needed a bed and shower and theirs wasn’t the only battered pickup out back.

  “I wouldn’t want the money as a gift,” Mark said. “Or a loan, either. I can work for it. There’s plenty of jobs on the farm you haven’t been getting to. Three dollars an hour.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  It was awkward going to bed in the same room. Though, normally, Mark slept naked, tonight he kept his shorts on, just like Lewis.

  Lewis had his hands under his head. “I’ll be curious to have you meet Doug Whitenaur. He’s a character.”

  “You figure he’s got Nop?”

  “I do. I figure he paid Grady and Lester to steal him. He couldn’t ever trial Nop so I figure he’s keeping him as breeding stock.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “ ’Course I am. How else would Lester Gumm have known Whitenaur’s name. Doug Whitenaur’s a real character.” Lewis flicked off the light. He said, “Tomorrow we’ll get Nop back again. I’ve missed that contrary dog. I’ll start working him so he’ll be ready for the Bluegrass. I always meant to run him in the Bluegrass this year.”

  Next morning was one of those bright blue days. The spring air couldn’t have been nicer. At 6:30 in the morning the only place open in downtown Lebanon, Ohio, was a Donut House. The scrambled eggs and bacon came on paper plates but the coffee was good. One of the early Shaker settlements was nearby, so Lebanon is self-consciously “historical” and “antiquey” but that isn’t the worst vice a town can have; the town is smug but pretty—much prettier than the sprawl outside Cincinnati which is housing developments and malls. Lewis had driven I 75 and I 71 before, but he’d never got off downtown before. He parked the truck in the first parking garage he saw. It wasn’t 7:30 yet.

  He queried the parking attendant who gave him a wary look, wondering what Lewis might want with the cops.

  Cincinnati is pure midwestern, maybe a little better scrubbed than most. Some old parks and some new arcades too. They passed the office of the Cincinnati Enquirer, a newspaper Lewis had heard of.

  The pedestrians were night people, cleaners and watchmen going home. A couple window cleaners washed display windows of the Stone and Whitenaur department store.

  Inside the windows the mannequins held their dramatic poses under sheets. The transom over the front door said SINCE 1892 in gold leaf. The building was yellow brick—very solid—imposing.

  Lewis rubbernecked unashamed, turning around and walking backward when something took his fancy. Oh, it was a great day to be alive!

  He stopped before every shop window: office supplies, men’s shoes, ladies’ fashions. He even paused at the opaque glass window which concealed the Ohio State Liquor store. Grinned, moved on.

  “You know,” he said, “you know …”

  Mark agreed, “Sure is a pretty morning.”

  City halls and police stations are always hard-used and the Grebe Street station was no exception. Plenty policemen coming in and out. Roll call. The police hats were two-toned like a layer cake and had a curiously nineteenth-century air.

  “My name’s Burkholder,” Lewis introduced himself to the desk sergeant. “Lewis Burkholder from White Post, Virginia. I’m a farmer. I need a policeman to help me get my dog back.”

  The desk sergeant said Lewis should fill out a report if his dog was stolen. Lewis said the dog was stolen in Virginia, in December, but the dog was here in Cincinnati now with a fellow name of Doug Whitenaur. “Have his address right here. I got his name from the man who stole the dog and his address from the NASDS, that’s the stock dog registry. You see, Mr. Tyler Whitenaur, Doug’s daddy, was a famous Border Collie handler.”

  The desk sergeant wrote Lewis’s data down on a police form and put it on a pile of other police forms. He told Lewis to take a seat and wait, which he and Mark did for the better part of an hour. Uniformed men came and went. A black man stumbled through the door, a bloody handkerchief held against his head. Lewis got up to help, but the desk sergeant said they’d take care of it.

  After some minutes of sitting, Mark stood and read a poster which detailed the specifics of the U.S. Equal Employment Act. He sat down again.

  Detective Sergeant Steve Nelson wore his hair short, took forty-medium slacks and a forty-short jacket. He was in shirtsleeves. His hat rested in the out box of his neat, oiled wooden desk. Previously, that desk hadn’t been treated right. Deep nasty scratches, brutal gouges; but it was oiled now, Nelson had done it himself. Nelson was wide cheeked, blocky in the teeth. The eyes behind his plain metal-rim glasses wouldn’t flinch.

  The long wait had taken some of the steam out of Lewis. He had reason to believe (Lewis said) that Douglas Whitenaur had hired two men to steal his dog.

  “What kinda dog?”

  “It’s a Border Collie. Nop is registered with the North American Sheep Dog Society. He’s got Wiston Cap on his father’s side and he’s just two generations away from Gilchrist’s Spot on the dam’s side.”

  “What makes you think he didn’t wander off?”

  “Nop never strayed out of the farmyard. Never set foot out of the yard, he didn’t. No, somebody took him, all right. Him and that Dixie dog both.”

  “Dixie?”

  Lewis told about the coon-dog puppy.

  “Do you think this Whitenaur stole the dogs?”

  “I don’t know if Whitenaur stole Dixie or not. I just know he stole my dog.”

  “Th
at was in Virginia.”

  “Yes sir, three-point-four miles south of White Post, Virginia. That’s the Burkholder farm.”

  “You reported the theft in Virginia?”

  “Yes sir. Sheriff Lohr took my deposition. It was the sheriff who put me on to Whitenaur’s stooges.”

  Writing: “That’s L-O-R-E?”

  “No. That’s an ‘H-R’ in his name, not an ‘R-E.’ If you wanted to call him up, I’d be happy to reimburse you for your call.”

  “Did anybody see the dog being stolen? Any physical evidence?”

  “No sir. It was Christmas day, you see, and the family was in to supper. Wasn’t until I went out to do my chores, about five o’clock, that I knew Nop was missing and the Dixie dog too. I looked all over for him, even up on the road because I was afraid he got himself run over, but he wasn’t to be found. This man Whitenaur—Nop licked his dog, Bit O’ Scot, at the Innisfree Trial. Some men just naturally hate to lose and Whitenaur … I reckon he’s one of them.”

  Sergeant Nelson underlined the sheriff’s name. He sighed. “Mister Burkholder, I could con you along but you look like the sort of man who’d rather have the truth.”

  “I would.”

  “Well sir, it’s like this. Dog theft is a category-five crime, crime against property. According to FBI statistics, category-five crimes are the fastest-growing crimes in the U.S. Suppose you come in here and report that somebody stole your license plate. The desk sergeant will take down your name, the number and that’ll be pretty much the end of what we do. We don’t broadcast the plate as stolen unless you report both your license plates. You can see why. One plate, we figure it probably just fell off.” He held up two chubby fingers. “Two plates, we figure somebody stole ’em. It’s the same way with dogs. I don’t know how many cases of missing dogs we get in a year. Maybe four or five hundred reports. If there’s no physical evidence, we figure chances are the dog ran off. If somebody sees somebody putting the dog into a car, then we look. Or if the dog’s chain’s been cut with bolt cutters.”

  Lewis was thoughtful. “Why would a happy dog run away from home?”

  The sergeant underlined Sheriff Lohr’s name again. He asked Lewis if he’d had morning coffee. Lewis had. Mark had too but would certainly take another. Sergeant Nelson went to the coffee machine where he chatted with a couple other detectives. He set paper towels on his desk so the cups wouldn’t leave rings.

  “Mister Burkholder, I got a dog. Cocker Spaniel. AKC registered. Hundred-fifty-dollar pup. Gave her all the shots. Had her spayed. The whole schmeer. Wife loves that dog. Every two, three days, the dog goes in the front room and takes a nice dump. Wouldn’t matter so much if the dog dropped her load on the kitchen floor which is Armstrong tile or the dinette floor, that’s natural oak, polyurethaned, but the dog goes into the front room, smack in the middle of the deep pile carpet me and my brother-in-law installed last fall. Every time, same place. It’s starting to bleach the carpet from green to this sort of sick yellow, right in the middle of the floor. Now I hit that dog every time she craps but I can’t see where I do a bit of good. If that dog was to run away from home, you think I’d report her? Hell, I’d keep the blinds down, in case she does come back she’ll think we moved to Florida or something. My wife loves that dog.”

  “I’m sorry we took up so much of your time,” Lewis said, rising to his feet.

  Nelson beamed. “No trouble. Any time we can help.”

  Mark said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You mean somebody can walk off with a five-thousand-dollar dog and the police won’t do a thing about it?”

  “Five thousand dollars?”

  “I’ve turned down five thousand dollars for Nop.”

  Sergeant Nelson wrote “Nop” on his pad but didn’t underline it.

  Mark made a rather better job of explanation than Lewis had and Sergeant Nelson listened more attentively. Mark spoke of their long search, the reward posters, the rumors checked out. He told about finding Nop’s collar with Lester Gumm.

  “This Lester Gumm admitted stealing the dog? He stole him at Whitenaur’s request?”

  Mark didn’t quote Lester’s exact words. An exact quote would have seemed ambiguous, too weak to force this policeman to help them. Mark said what he thought the words meant. “Whitenaur’s our man all right. Lester fingered him.”

  Sergeant Nelson pursed his lips. “You’ll pay for a call to Sheriff Lohr?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Nelson hummed while the call went through and when he had the sheriff on the line, he spun his chair and hunched over so Mark and Lewis couldn’t overhear. A few questions, a few minutes. When he hung up, his eyes were friendlier. “You’re a fire chief, huh? What town?”

  “White Post, Virginia. We have a good little department. Most of our volunteers are state-certified firefighters. We got us a Seagrave pumper and a Chevrolet brush truck—a one-ton with four-wheel drive and dual wheels. The brush unit will …”

  “Uh-huh. Your sheriff says you’re okay.”

  Lewis laughed. “He’s got my vote.”

  Sergeant Nelson showed some laugh teeth. “No search warrant. With evidence like this, there’s no way I could get a judge to sign a search warrant.”

  “I hadn’t hoped for that,” Lewis lied. Lewis paused, hoping alternatives would come to him. “I don’t suppose you could accompany me to Whitenaur’s house? I’d get my dog back and you could arrest him.”

  Nelson showed teeth again, as if Lewis had, once again, made a particularly lame joke. “Arrest?”

  “Do you go with us or do Mark and me go alone?”

  Sergeant Nelson wiped at his desk with his crumpled paper towel. He crushed his plastic cup and dunked it in his neighbor’s wastebasket. He said yes he would and wasn’t it a beautiful morning, nicest day so far this spring and did Lewis have a photograph of the missing critter. That was Nelson’s word, critter.

  He tapped the photograph. “That Mrs. Burkholder?”

  “Yes sir. That’s my wife Beverly.”

  “Handsome woman.”

  Lewis nodded agreement and thank you.

  They all went in Sergeant Nelson’s car. It was an unmarked cruiser with a dirty dashboard and plenty of body squeaks. For some reason, Lewis had expected something less ordinary and, face it, something a little cleaner. Sergeant Nelson kept one arm out the window and drove the narrow streets very fast, very smooth.

  Lewis Burkholder had a lump in his throat. He thought Nop would probably recognize him.

  They traveled north up the Strip: tire stores, fast foods, used-car lots, plenty of traffic lights. Sergeant Nelson talked about Cincinnati, how much nicer it had been when he was growing up. They passed roadhouses—just a few earlybirds parked on the gravel lots. The Red Lion, that was one of them. Billy’s Temptation was another.

  “This has always been pretty nice out here,” Nelson said as they rode into Monte Verde Heights. “Plenty of money here after World War Numero Uno and they liked to build the big houses. It’s still expensive too—never got run down. I always wanted one of them big old houses; figured I’d renovate it myself you know, but we never had the bucks. That’s the place you want, 1412 Blandings Road, that brown job.”

  The house was stone sections alternating with stucco painted brown.

  The house wasn’t quite Tudor but yearned to be. The lawn could have used a little work—last year’s weeds, this year’s scraps of blown paper. Smeared cigarette butts decorated the long walk. The cedar shrubs were in their prime, healthy but rough.

  The door kickplate was scuffed. Deep scratches around the keyhole.

  It never occurred to Lewis that Doug Whitenaur might not have his dog.

  “I’ll do the talking, okay?” Sergeant Nelson pressed the buzzer.

  “If he’s not here, we can just stroll around back. He’ll have his kennels in back and that’s where Nop’ll be.”

  Sounds inside. A door banged shut. Nelson took a notebook from his hip pocket, ruffled until
he came to a blank page. His ballpoint was clipped to the cover.

  “Wait a minute.” Somebody clunked into the inside of the door, cursed and jerked it open.

  Doug Whitenaur wore a powder-blue robe. He hadn’t shaved and his cheeks were puffy. He was rubbing his stubbed toe on the inside of his calf. He squinted to honor the sun shining in his eyes. “What time is it?” The words came out like a frog’s croak.

  “After eleven. You’re Douglas Whitenaur?”

  With a sour look that didn’t recognize anybody, Whitenaur swung the door closed until it collided with Sergeant Nelson’s shoe. “I don’t know you, do I? I closed the bars last night. I just got home a couple hours ago. Go pester someone else.”

  Lewis had his eyes on Whitenaur, like he was pinning him there, in that doorway, with his gaze. Lewis was primed to fire. “I’ve come for my dog,” he said.

  Whitenaur rubbed his eyes. Lewis got a whiff of his breath which was stale. “Burkholder,” Whitenaur identified him. “What are you doing here?”

  “You paid Lester and Grady Gumm to steal my Nop dog. They said you done it. Lester said you had the dog and I’ve come for him. It ain’t fair what you done, Whitenaur. It ain’t fair at all.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” Whitenaur said, like that was an answer. “I can’t believe this.”

  Sergeant Nelson smiled a too-simple smile. “I’m Nelson, Sergeant, Cincinnati Police. Now, Mr. Whitenaur, you raise dogs and Mr. Burkholder he raises dogs too. Mr. Burkholder has come all the way from Virginia because he thinks you’ve got his dog. Photograph!”

  Nelson had to repeat the command before Lewis heeded. Whitenaur was full awake now. His eyes were hurting but they were stopped down narrow. He wouldn’t touch the photograph Lewis held out. “One of your dogs? One of your ‘homegrown’ Border Collies? Whatever makes you think I’d want one of your dogs?”

  “All the trophies my dogs took away from you.”

  “Take it easy everybody,” Nelson said. “We can settle this very easily. Just let us come in to look for the dog and …”