So Alone, page 12
“It’s not an appointment,” Faith said, “We’re here to talk to you about some old clients of yours.”
He looked even more confused. “To me? Why me?”
“We have reason to believe that a series of recent murders in the local area are being committed by dogs trained by their owner to attack humans,” Michael explained. “The victims thus far all received grooming services from you in the past.”
“Oh God,” Foster said, paling. “How horrible. You don’t think it was me, do you?”
“Maybe we should talk inside,” Michael suggested. “Behind closed doors.”
Foster looked between the two agents, then down at Turk. The chihuahuas had practically buried themselves in Turk’s fur, a state of being Turk endured with saintly patience. That sight apparently convinced Foster. “All right,” he said, “Let me get my two girls.”
He walked back to the van. Faith and Michael shared a glance.
“Should we go with him?” Michael asked. “Just in case he pulls a runner?”
Before Faith could respond, Foster opened the passenger door and called, “Martha! Trixie!”
Two Dachshunds appeared on the passenger seat. Foster carefully picked them up one at a time and set them on the ground. They trotted toward the strangers, their tiny legs pumping furiously as they greeted the strangers.
“They’re my newest,” Foster explained. “They get separation anxiety when they’re apart from me. I’m going to start weaning them next week when I take time off, but for now, I’m avoiding torn furniture and bladder control issues.”
Michael nodded, not sure how to respond to that.
“Are these all the dogs you have?” Faith asked.
“That’s it,” Foster replied with a smile. “Martha, Trixie, Benny, Joe, Teacup, Scooter, Pancho, Lefty—that’s the two chihuahas making friends with your Shepherd—Genevieve and Honey.”
Michael lifted an eyebrow at the second to last name. “Genevieve?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s from a children’s book. The character’s name was Gigi Genevieve something-or-other. I was going to go with Gigi, but that reminded me of one of my less… fulfilling clients, so I went with Genevieve instead.”
“Would that client happen to have been Gigi Demetrious?”
“Demetrious,” he said. “Sounds familiar. Hey, did I offer you guys any coffee yet?”
“We’re all right, thank you,” Faith replied.
“Do you mind if I make some for myself?” he asked.
“Go ahead,” Michael replied.
Foster squeezed past the two agents, navigating the sea of tiny dogs with practiced ease. Michael could imagine how furious he might be at a man who couldn’t or didn’t care to avoid tiny dogs and left the crushed body of the one he stepped on for his wife to “clean up.”
“Gigi Demetrious,” Foster repeated, pouring water from a pitcher into the tabletop coffee maker. “Did she have a little King Charles’ Spaniel? A red one?”
Faith looked at Michael, who reddened when he realized he hadn’t gotten the name of the breed of Gigi Demetrious’s dog. “Ms. Demetrious was about five-foot-six with natural blonde hair and blue eyes. She lived in—”
“Yep, I know her,” Foster interrupted. His lips thinned in distaste. “She took shitty care of her dog. His fur was always matted when I got to her, and I could feel the poor animal’s ribs each time I bathed her. Honestly, I don’t think the dog would have even survived if the daughter hadn’t snuck him food every now and then.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Mr. Chase, can you verify your whereabouts last Sunday night, last Wednesday night and last Friday night?”
Foster swallowed, seeming to realize for the first time that he might be in trouble here. “At night? No, not really. Maybe the neighbors could confirm my van was parked in the driveway. I mean, I was here, but I was alone, and dogs don’t speak English, unfortunately.” He smiled at his weak joke, but his smile faded when the two agents didn’t return the expression. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asked. “Am I in trouble?”
“Do you think you should be?” Michael asked.
“I mean, I wouldn’t know why,” he said. “I just washed her dog. I didn’t… I mean… what happened?”
“What do you think happened?” Faith asked.
“Well, I’m guessing she was kidnapped or killed or something,” Foster replied. “Why else would the FBI be here?”
“Mr. Chase, did you know Gerald Conway or George Merrill?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Did I groom their dogs too?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Foster lifted a hand nervously, the coffee forgotten. “Hey, man, I see a lot of people. I remember the dogs, but I only remember the owners if they’re assholes.”
“These two were assholes,” Michael confirmed. “Gerald Conway, middle-aged, condescending.”
“Do you remember what kind of dog he had?”
Michael looked at Faith, who shook her head. Tom hadn't gotten that information either. Christ, they were off to a shitty start on this lead.
“What about George Merrill? His wife had a teacup poodle.”
Foster’s eyes shot open wide. “Oh yeah! That asshole! God, he was a prick with a capital P! Did you hear what he did to Sharky?”
“We heard,” Faith said, “It makes his death seem sort of justified, wouldn’t you say?”
“He’s dead?”
Michael and Faith shared another look, and Michael decided to be more direct. "Mr. Chase, to be clear, we're investigating the murders of Gerald Conway, George Merrill and Gigi Demetrious. All three of them received grooming services from you at one point. Gerald Conway saw you at Goldwood Dog Grooming Company, George Merrill at Sunrise Groomers and Gigi Demetrious from your mobile service, Happy Paws. All three of them were killed by a pack of dogs, and all three of them, it looks like, were less than pleasant dog owners."
"That's putting it lightly, Agent," Foster said with a frown, seeming to forget the fact that he was suspected of being their murderer. "Gerald Conway. I remember him now. He abused his dog, too. He had a little Pomeranian. The poor thing shook like a leaf every time I saw it. It only relaxed when he left. George Merrill, as you know, crushed Sparky to death and left him there for his wife, the one who actually cared about him, to find. Gigi treated her dog like he was another accessory. He had been lost for three days when I showed up to groom him. She didn’t even bother to tell me he was missing. When I told her I was there to groom Trotter, she said, ‘Who? Oh, the dog. Yeah, he’s gone.’ Look, I didn’t kill them, but I’m not going to act like I’m sorry they’re dead.”
Michael had had enough of hearing that. Sure, these people were jerks to their pets, but they were still people. Their families might not have had the best relationships with them, but Genevieve was still hurt to lose her mother, and Jeanie Conway had built a life with her husband. So what if it was a rough life? It was a life, and someone who thought he was being some sort of avenging angel had murdered them in cold blood.
He narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Foster, who paled and backed up reflexively. “To be clear, Mr. Chase,” he said, “We think you might have murdered them. Start convincing us you didn’t.”
“I didn’t!” he replied, his voice almost a squeak. “Honestly! These are all the dogs I have! Even put together, they couldn’t kill an adult.”
“They’re not all the dogs you have access to,” Faith pointed out.
“I don’t take my clients’ dogs home!” he protested. “I go to my clients and do the work there. That’s the whole point! To groom the dogs where their owners can see and not have to be worried about their pets being mistreated. Also for me to see and report any abuse.”
“You never reported the abuse Gigi Demetrious leveled against her dog,” Michael pointed out.
Foster frowned a little. “What she did was mean, but not quite abuse. Trotter was thin but not starving. The daughter—who I did not know was named Genevieve before now, by the way—took enough care of him that I couldn’t justify taking him away.”
“But you’ve taken other dogs away,” Faith asked.
“No!” he said, his pitch rising to a squeak again. “No, I never took anyone’s dogs away! Look, if I thought someone was abusing the dog, I would have reported it to animal control. I’m not a hero. I wouldn’t have done some vigilante dognapping thing. Look at me. Do I look like someone who could murder people in cold blood?”
“You’d be amazed.” Michael replied. “Foster, we’re going to follow up with your former employers and review your interactions with the victims. Is there anything you want to tell us now so we don’t hear something from them and wonder why we didn’t hear it from you?”
Foster hesitated and looked to his left. Bingo.
Michael lifted an eyebrow, and Foster rolled his eyes and sighed anxiously. "Look, I got into it with Gerald Conway a little bit, all right?"
Michael cocked his head, and Foster said, "Okay, George Merrill too. But I didn't do anything! I just… yelled at them a little."
“Ooh, storytime!” Michael said, pulling a chair away from the kitchen table and sitting on the edge, his hands resting lightly on his knees. Typically interrogators wanted their suspects sitting and themselves standing to intimidate the suspects, but Michael found the uncanny valley of an upbeat investigator projecting harmlessness everywhere but his eyes to be more effective at breaking down walls. “I can’t wait to hear all about both events,” he told Foster. “Every single detail.”
Foster looked between the two agents, then at Turk. Turk dipped his head in a nod, and Foster, oddly, seemed to take courage from that. He took a breath and said, “Okay, I saw Gerald Conway hitting his dog almost every time he brought her in. She was a beautiful Collie mix, but she had been abused to the point of severe anxiety. She would tremble constantly in his presence and cringe every time he spoke to her. I used to get so pissed off, but I didn’t say anything because it was my first job living on my own, and I thought I should just be cool. But one day, they came in and she bumped into his ankle, and he kicked her. He fucking kicked her!”
He paused, possibly waiting for the two agents to exclaim in outrage. Michael certainly felt outraged, but the fact that Gerald Conway had been reduced to a skeleton a week ago still bothered him more than the fact that he was abusive to his dog.
After a moment, Foster continued. "The poor thing let go of her bladder on the floor. Gerald got this red-faced, angry look and started walking toward her with his hand raised. I remember he said, 'Minx, you little bitch,' in this horrible voice.
“I couldn’t take it anymore. I jumped in front of him and said, ‘If you put your hands on that dog again, I’ll call the sheriffs and report you!’”
“And did you put your hands on him?” Faith asked.
“No,” he said, reddening. “Gerald shoved me out of the way. I hit the counter and fell to the ground, and he looked at me and said, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ Well, my boss came out to the front, and when she heard what happened, she fired me on the spot. She didn’t care that I had seen Gerald fucking kick his dog. She just wanted the employee who couldn’t mind his own business out of her way.”
“That must have angered you a lot,” Michael said.
“Not enough to kill someone,” Foster said defiantly.
Michael lifted his hands placatingly, still wearing his diamond-hard grin. “Tell me about George Merrill.”
Foster adopted the flat-faced rage he wore earlier when talking about George. “He’s lucky I never saw him,” he said. “Honestly, agent, I’d either be dead or you’d be handcuffing me now if I ever saw George in person. That dick got what he deserved. You can be upset with me for saying that if you want, but it’s the truth. When I found out what happened, I quit Sunrise. I decided I needed to work for myself so if I caught anyone treating their dogs like that again, I could report them. I wouldn’t kill them,” he insisted. “One of the commitments I made to myself was that I wouldn’t allow myself to lose control the way I would have with Merrill. I can’t help anyone in jail. Of course, as it turns out, Gigi was the worst owner I’ve seen since leaving Sunrise, and she was nowhere near as bad as the other two were.”
Michael and Faith looked at each other, and he could see she was weighing everything she’d heard like he was.
Michael turned back to Foster and folded his hands. “Mr. Chase,” he said, “I’m inclined to believe you, but the fact that you don’t have an alibi we can verify for the nights of the murders and your own admitted conflicts with two of the three victims make it hard for me to take your word for it.”
“Can’t you call my clients and… no wait, don’t call them. I don’t want them to know I’m being suspected of murder.”
“If we bring you in for murder, they’ll find out from the evening news,” Faith pointed out.
Foster released a sound that reminded Michael uncomfortably, though perhaps appropriately, of a dog’s whine. He ran his hands through his hair and said, “Okay, if you have to call them, can you at least say you’re investigating something like dog thefts, and you want to make sure I never left anywhere with their dogs? That’s what you need to verify, right? That I’m not borrowing big dogs to go kill people?”
“We can avoid the topic of the murder investigation,” Faith agreed, “but the alibi is more concerning, if I’m being honest.”
“I know,” Foster said with a whine again. “I mean… I don’t walk around living my life thinking, ‘Hey, I should probably take pictures of myself everywhere I go in case someone suspects me of being a serial killer.’”
“That’s fair,” Michael said, “but you have to give us something.”
He lifted his hands and let them drop. "Other than the neighbors maybe—hopefully—noticing that I arrived home and didn't leave, I don't know. Wait!" His eyes flew open with excitement. "I ordered pizza on Friday! Yeah, I was binging Star Trek, and I ordered a pizza at eleven-thirty from the Pizza Parlor. They're the only ones that deliver that late. I remember the delivery driver was named Luigi, and he looked like that chef from those old ravioli cans my parents used to buy when I was a kid. Yeah, if you call him, he can tell you I was here on Friday. I didn't order anything on Sunday or Wednesday, but I can explain Friday, and if I wasn't murdering anyone Friday, then I can't be your guy, can I?"
If Michael were being pedantic, he could mention that the fact that Foster’s anger was directed far more toward Conway and Merrill than to Gigi Demetrious and the fact he had actually gotten into an altercation with Conway meant that he should still be considered a suspect in Conway’s murder, but despite Foster’s anger and the fact that he actually did fit the profile of a serial killer who would hide behind a pack of large dogs rather than risk a physical confrontation himself, Michael bought his story. It was convenient for them to fit Foster into a profile, but there were too many holes. If the pizza shop confirmed that he had indeed ordered pizza the night Merrill died, then he was probably not their guy. Merrill was the only one he seemed to truly hate, and it was his murder for which he had the alibi.
“We’ll follow up, Mr. Chase,” Michael replied. “In the meantime, do yourself a favor and stay in town. We might need to contact you again.”
Foster bobbed his head up and down excitedly, relieved that the agents were coming around to his side. “Sure!” he said, “You betcha.”
The three of them left, gently prying themselves away from the dogs. Pancho and Lefty seemed particularly upset to lose Turk and followed him nearly all the way to the street before finally turning back to the house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was dusk when they returned to the hotel. Michael called the Pizza Parlor, and after verifying that Foster had indeed ordered a large thin crust with extra cheese and pepperoni, he ordered them a Chicago-style deep dish with extra cheese. Faith declined to participate in the pizza, so Michael ordered her a chicken ceasar salad.
Michael ate mechanically, a sour frown on his face. Turk ate his food next to the bed, watching a movie about talking dogs that Faith had found on one of the family channels. He seemed unperturbed by the dead end in the case.
Faith felt a lot more like Michael than Turk at the moment. The Boss’s throwaway case to get her away from the Copycat Killer was proving to be far more of a challenge than it seemed it would be at first. The killer’s M.O. read like a bad joke at first glance, but it was proving to be the most brilliant method for avoiding detection they had come across. There was less evidence to follow up on than any other case Faith could recall, and the two good leads they had found turned up empty. One was the junkyard Santa Claus, and the other was enjoying a pizza while George Merrill was getting eaten alive.
She decided to take a walk. These solo excursions often helped clear her mind and allowed her to sift through cases and find connections she couldn't see before. She stood, and Turk followed her. “Going out?” Michael asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, I need some fresh air.”
“Take your keycard,” he said, “I might be in the shower when you get back.”
A transient memory of showering with Michael when they were together flitted across Faith’s mind.
“All right,” she replied, grabbing the keycard and shoving it into the back pocket of her jeans, then quickly leaving the room, Turk at her side.
She recalled the moment that passed between them at the field office the day she discovered Gordon’s murder. She didn’t think often of hers and Michael’s relationship. It had been over almost three times as long as it had lasted, but the feelings would return occasionally and with more power than she cared to admit.
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